Goodnight Children Everywhere
by TheFicChick
Summary: Once, Alice asked her why she hadn't given any consideration to going home, and Bella was surprised by the immediate response that welled up in her throat: This is my home. *Written for the 2018 Babies at the Border Compilation*


**Goodnight Children Everywhere**

. . .

_**Note: **__This was written for inclusion in the Babies at the Border Compilation, to benefit the ACLU, Kids In Need of Defense (KIND), Human Rights First, the Innovation Law Lab, and the Young Center for Immigrant Children's Rights. Please consider donating to any one (or all!) of these organizations if you haven't already. Thank you for reading. xo_

**Summary:** Once, Alice asked her why she hadn't given any consideration to going home, and Bella was surprised by the immediate response that welled up in her throat: _This is my home_.

**Rating:** M (duh)

**Pairing:** Bella/Edward

**Beta:** HollettLA, as always. Her perfection only sharpens with time. THANK YOU. xo

**. . .**

**A/N: Not a history major. Not around during World War II. But my parents spent their childhoods playing on bombed-out ruins in the East End of London, my grandfather was in the RAF, and my great-grandmother refused to hide in shelters during the Blitz, instead lying in bed with a paperback western and a bottle of whiskey and screaming obscenities at the sky, calling Hitler a bastard as bombs fell.**

**This one's for them, and for all the "other people's children" suffering at our own borders and at various other places in the world.**

. . .

**November 1940**

It's the blackouts Bella still can't quite get used to. The blackouts and the sirens.

The lights were one of the things she'd always loved about London, the way they glowed warmly even on rainy days, light bleeding onto the mirrored streets and sidewalks, making the entire city look like a watercolor painting. One of her favorite sights had always been the Houses of Parliament, their reflection dancing on the surface of the River Thames.

She loved the walks to and from her flat: the sweet smell of yeast and sugar that seeped out through open bakery doors in invisible clouds; the warm yellow lights glowing behind pub windows as roars of laughter spilled forth every time doors were opened. She loved the way the butcher called her "love" and men on the street would greet her with "All right?" instead of "Hello," and women would say, "Mind how you go" instead of "Goodbye." It was as if everyone looked out for each other, even before it became a matter of survival.

London always seemed a warm city, despite the gray skies and winter's early nightfall. But her adopted city, whose lights once shone steadily through the misty drizzles, now seems cold and dark. She refuses to add _desolate_, even in her own mind, lest it tempt the fates of surrender.

_Surrender_. A dirty word, these days.

But she can't deny that she still loves it, loves the people who peek up at each other from beneath brims of hats and lips of umbrellas with that resolute we'll-muck-through-it-together look in their eyes. Lips pressed into grim lines, smiles replaced by small nods of acknowledgment. For a reason she can't quite articulate, she feels as though she belongs here, in this city so affected by war, muddling through with native Londoners.

In the beginning, long before the world was twisted into its current maelstrom of chaos, she would awaken to the soft pat of raindrops against the windowpane and think, in that cloud of confusion between sleeping and waking, that she was back in the bedroom of her father's house in Washington. She would spend her waking moments believing the gray sky beyond her window was the sky above Forks, and it would take a few more moments of swimming toward consciousness before she would remember that her father was dead and the grandmother she'd been shipped to was dead and everything was different now.

Now, there are many things about the war that fill Bella with dread, but one of the most daunting is the question of what else will be taken from her. She lost her mother almost the minute she was born; her father came back from the Western Front to bury his wife and find a newborn daughter he'd never met. Bella never knew if the sadness that seemed to wrap heavy around Charlie Swan's shoulders like a cloak was a result of what he'd seen in the so-called Great War or the fact that he'd lost a wife so young, but just as she turned twelve, her father lost what they had in the crash of '29 and put a revolver in his mouth. She wondered if she'd ever be able to forgive him for choosing to leave her, when all they'd had was each other.

Instead, she was to be shipped abroad to a grandmother she'd never met, despite being her namesake—a faceless woman who had sent her embroidered handkerchiefs and lavender-scented milled soaps and tiny sachets of talcum powder for birthdays as a child. The moment she stepped off the ship at Southampton, however, and saw her father's eyes in an old woman's face, she felt a spark of recognition, enrobed in hope. And as the years passed and her grandmother made her homemade custard and brewed strong pots of tea and told her stories about Charlie as a boy, Bella's heart began to heal.

Then, her grandmother simply didn't wake up one morning, and seventeen-year-old Bella found herself bereft all over again.

Now, staring down the barrel of Hitler's diabolicalness, she finds herself cataloging the things she could lose that might further break her heart.

At the top of the list: Alice. An English orphan who fell hard and fast for a British soldier over the span of a handful of days, Alice works her fingernails to stubs packing gunpowder into shells in the munitions factory, determined to deliver the biggest possible punch a woman of barely five feet tall can, in the only way she can. When Bella first met her, Alice had been in training as a dressmaker. When she went to work at the factory packing explosives, Bella secretly thought it might have been the most fitting job for Alice, whose personality was nothing if not explosive. Alice was everything Bella wished to be: strong-willed, fierce-hearted, sharp-minded. People underestimated her at their own peril, and her capacity for love was as big as her capacity for fire.

Not long after meeting, they got a flat together a short hop from the factory, Bella's domestic service job came to an end, and Alice managed to get her a spot at the factory as well. While the idea of making weapons was one Bella initially found intimidating, she was swept into the fold of camaraderie among the factory girls, and it was as if she'd managed to find a family of sorts, to say nothing of the satisfaction of feeling as though they were actually _doing_ something to help in the fight.

It was under Alice's wing that Bella's true metamorphosis from immigrant to transplanted Londoner became complete: working girl with a local near their shared flat, where Harry the publican knew them by name, knew that Alice liked a gin sour while Bella preferred a vodka and lemonade, where he'd give them each a free packet of crisps and a wink on Friday nights when they were bone-weary from a long week's work. Bella retained her American accent and a faint flicker of affection for baseball, but in most other things, she became more Brit than Yank.

Recently, when she'd been huddled at a corner table in the pub, Harry turned up the wireless so that Winston Churchill's steady, grandfatherly voice emanated through the dim space, gradually turning down the dial on the pub noise until everyone, even the rowdiest boys, had fallen respectfully silent. As she'd listened to the newly named prime minister's regal words, goose bumps had risen on the bare skin of her forearms, and she'd felt the strangest prickling at the back of her neck. It was something she wasn't sure she'd ever felt so acutely: patriotism. She might not have been a Brit by birth, but after nine years on this side of the Atlantic, she couldn't help but feel like one.

It only serves to make her more anxious, as reports pour in about the Germans' relentless march across Europe, as bombs rain down around her beloved adopted city, as the smells and sounds and sights of destruction gradually overtake everything else.

Once, Alice asked her why she hadn't given any consideration to going home, and Bella was surprised by the immediate response that welled up in her throat. _This is my home_. Though Alice certainly would have understood, Bella didn't confess to the second half of the truth: on the other side of the Atlantic, there was nothing for her. No family, no friends. No future. She belonged in London, whether it was a city at war or not. And the stiff upper lip might have been contagious, because she steadfastly refused to succumb to any fear beyond the occasional consideration of things she might be poised to lose.

. . .

Darkness falls earlier and earlier each day, making the blacked-out nights seem longer and longer, and there's a small thrill in Bella's chest whenever she and Alice stay in the pub later than good sense advises, warming themselves from the inside out with drinks and laughter and friendship. The dark-wood walls shine despite the heavy curtain of smoke that hazes the air each night, and the hum of conversation is comforting in its joviality. It's become a weekly tradition to stop in the Kings Arms for a spot of dinner on the way home on Friday nights, Alice and Bella linking arms on the short walk between the bus stop and the pub, and then again on the even shorter walk from the pub to home. As a child, Bella often wondered what it might have been like to have a sister; now, she feels like she knows.

Some nights, Rose and Victoria, who also work in the factory, stop in for a quick drink with Bella and Alice before continuing on to their own flat on Nathan Way. They make quite the foursome, laughing and often drawing the attention of the few older men who linger, past the age of being called up, getting increasingly pissed and blustering about what they'd do if they "got their hands on" Hitler. It may be blind bravado, but it's amusing and comforting, and the girls giggle behind hands that still smell faintly of artillery.

On evenings when the air-raid siren splits the night earlier than usual, Bella and Alice forgo the trek back to the Anderson shelter near their flat and instead follow the small crowd from the pub to the tube station, finding a spot on the concrete platform on which to huddle while the muffled echoes of blasts and booms rattle the city streets above them. They play with the deck of cards Alice keeps in her handbag or simply chat, pretending not to notice the unpleasant stench of too many bodies in a less-than-clean space, pretending not to flinch when blasts sound too close for comfort, sometimes leaning against each other in an attempt to catch at least a little bit of sleep. At dawn, they emerge, hoping their tiny little flat has survived another night's bombing.

Tonight, Bella sits in the pub with Rose and Victoria, sipping her drink slightly quicker than normal, wanting to get home and check in on Alice, who had rushed ahead hoping for word from Jamie. She hasn't had any news of him since Dunkirk, and as the weeks drag on and amass into months, Bella can see the light of hope slowly dimming in Alice's bright gray eyes. With every report that comes in of the horrors of that day—the showers of bullets, the damage to the docks that precluded a large-scale evacuation, the names of the dead and missing that trickle in like a slow hemorrhage—Alice's steadfast refusal to believe the worst loses strength, the jut in her chin receding by degrees.

"All fine and dandy to have a girl back home to miss you, but it's the girl gets the short end of that stick," Victoria is saying as she watches a pair of regulars chuck darts in the corner.

"Come off it, Vicky," Rose says tiredly. "I think it's lovely that she's in love. What else is there to keep us warm at night, eh?"

"How's he keeping her warm from miles away, then?"

"Look around, love," Rose says, gesturing around the pub, populated largely by women and the graying men far removed from their eligible soldier days. "You saying you wouldn't be a soldier's girl, given half a chance? You're having a laugh, you are."

Vicky grumbles slightly. "She's a darling, that Alice. Just wouldn't want to see her get her heart smashed, is all."

"Speaking of smashed," Rose says, tossing back the last of her gin and lime and squinting slightly as she returns the empty glass to the table. "If we don't make a move, I'm going to have a second. Come on then, Vic."

"I'll go partway with you," Bella says, taking one last sip from her own glass and pulling her coat and the box holding her gas mask from the back of her chair. She tosses a small wave to Harry, who lifts his chin as he fills another pint glass, and follows Rose and Vicky toward the door, threading her arms through the sleeves of her wool coat.

"Bella? Is that you?"

It's been so long since she's heard an American accent that it takes her a good few moments to realize that not only are the words American, but they're her namethey contain her name. She turns to find a soldier rising from a small table half hidden in the corner. "Bella Swan," he says again, squinting through the haze of smoke separating them. He waves a hand in front of his face, taking off his hat and tucking it under his other arm.

"Yes?" she says tentatively, trying to see his face clearer. She doesn't know any soldiers, and she's trying to rack her brain to imagine any men she knows who might have since become soldiers, but the number of men she knows period is embarrassingly low.

Then he steps forward, parting the smoke like a mist, and she'd recognize that face anywhere. "Edward Cullen?" she gasps, hand rising to her chest of its own volition. It's so strange to see someone from home, someone from her old life, let alone someone like Edward Cullen, that the shock hits her with the force of one of the Luftwaffe's incendiary bombs.

He grins, and it's like a blast from a radiator, warming her through. "You remember me," he says, and it's a question even though it doesn't sound like one. Bella is grateful that the haze of smoke is likely hiding the flush she can feel working its way into her face.

"Of course," she replies but offers nothing more. Though, she does remember him—the eldest son of Dr. and Mrs. Cullen; the boy who flicked his wrist and sent newspapers sailing onto every porch in town in the early light of morning; the boy who saved his younger brother, Emmett, from drowning in the creek at the Fourth of July picnic when she was eight. Edward Cullen was the kind of shining star Forks didn't see too often, and as such, he was everyone's favorite. A golden boy, and like all girls in Forks, she'd been fascinated by him, despite the fact that he was three years older.

But now, standing before her, is a man with nothing "boy" about him. His hair is cropped short but has been mussed by his hat; his shoulders are broad beneath the dusty blue of his issued coat. He cuts a sharp line in the uniform—the belt cinched neatly around his trim waist, brass buttons gleaming in the warm yellow pub light, creases of his trousers running straight lines to the floor, where the toes of his shoes gleam. It takes her a moment to register the discrepancy, and she frowns in confusion. It's the uniform of a Royal Air Force pilot, the identifying badge plain on the right side of his chest.

"You're with the RAF?" she asks, and his mouth turns up on one side. Haltingly, he lifts his left arm and taps a single finger to the shoulder of his right, where another patch shows the white silhouette of a bald eagle and the letters "E.S."

"Eagle Squadron," he replies, and when Bella frowns, he shrugs. "Just helping out some friends."

"Oh," she says, glancing at Rose and Victoria, who have stopped a few steps ahead of her and are staring at Edward with barely concealed fascination. "Oh!" she says again, slipping into the comfortable cloak of general etiquette. "Edward, these are my friends, Rose Hale and Victoria Turner. Girls, this is Edward Cullen. We're from the same hometown."

"How do you do," both girls parrot, eyes climbing up and down Edward's figure before they lean toward each other slightly.

"It's a pleasure," Edward says, nodding in their general direction before refocusing on Bella, polite smile returning to the more genuine one he'd been wearing originally. "Might I buy you a drink, if you're not in a hurry to get home?"

Bella glances toward Rose and Victoria, who watch her carefully. Rose cocks one eyebrow, and Bella gives a barely noticeable nod. "Right then," Rose says, hoisting her own gas mask higher on her shoulder. "We're off. Ta-ra." Vicky gives a wave and follows Rose out of the pub as Bella turns an expectant eye to Edward, who's still smiling that brilliant smile. She thinks absently that it's a good thing the pub's windows are blacked; he's generating nearly enough wattage to power a searchlight. That he's focusing it on her makes surprised pleasure bubble up in her chest.

Edward turns and pulls out a chair from beneath the small wooden table he'd been sitting at. As she lowers herself, he gestures toward the bar. "What'll it be?"

"Oh, just a vodka and lemonade, please." Her stomach gurgles, and she realizes she hasn't had a scrap to each since lunch. Another drink on an empty stomach is likely not the best idea. "And a packet of crisps, if you wouldn't mind?"

A wry grin tugs at his mouth, and he nods. "Absolutely."

Bella watches his broad back make its way the short distance to the bar, and she tries to assimilate the sudden appearance of someone from her old life here, in her new one. It's been years since she was even remotely melancholy for Forks, but seeing Edward Cullen here of all places sets her mind roaming to her childhood, to green landscapes and diner malteds and Hershey's chocolate. Nowhere is the time she's been gone made more evident than in Edward himself. Gone is the boy with the cowlicked hair and coltish limbs, and in his place is a broad-shouldered man. But as she watches him make his way back toward the table with her drink and a pint for himself, she can see the parts of him she does remember: green eyes, straight teeth, friendly smile.

"Thank you," she says as he places her glass and two bags of Walkers crisps on the table, and he nods as he sets his own glass down and takes the chair across from her.

"My pleasure." He scoots his chair in and leans forward slightly, raising his glass. "Cheers."

She mirrors the gesture. "Good health." They each take a sip, and Edward grins again as he returns his pint to the table.

"What on earth are you doing in London?"

She's opening her mouth to reply when she's interrupted by the familiar cry of the siren, its eerie, melodic wail splitting the night. Bella has always thought it sounded vaguely like an orchestra trying to tune up, but the panic it sends skittering through her chest and the way it makes every hair along her forearms and the back of her neck stand on end belies its truth. "Oh," she says, glancing around to where people are rising quickly from tables, slapping bills down and moving en masse toward the front doors of the pub.

"Do you live near here?" Edward asks, leaning closer and ducking his head to be heard over the din of the siren and the people's answering rumbles.

"Nearby," she confirms, thinking of the corrugated steel panels of the shelter behind her flat. "But not near enough."

Edward nods, pushing away from the table and rising to hold a hand out to help her up. "Come on, then."

He secures his hat on his head and guides her swiftly out of the pub, the duo swept up with the wave of people spilling from the doors. They pick their way quickly along the darkened street, sidestepping debris and rubble, roadways and sidewalks littered with fragments of buildings, stores, churches, schools, homes. The crowd from the pub scatters, some heading in the same direction as them, others dispersing, presumably to make their way toward home and their own shelters.

The knot of people headed in their direction is largely quiet, and she's reminded faintly of when she was a schoolchild, being shepherded along hallways and out to the playground in step with her classmates. Despite the grim set to people's mouths, the white-knuckled grip of mothers' hands around their children's, the obedience and the relative orderliness are the same.

The familiar circular sign of the tube station greets them, and she lets Edward guide her underground. The station is already packed with people who have been taking cover since before darkness descended: mothers who have carved out tiny squares of space for themselves and their children with blankets and pillows and cartons of sandwiches and drink to see them through the night; older men and women who sit curved toward each other like long-necked birds, hands clasped together in silence, faces weary.

Edward leads her into a tunnel, the tinny echo of a gramophone warbling from somewhere up ahead, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls. Weaving carefully around the huddled masses, they finally find a tiny space near a wall, barely bigger than a record sleeve. Edward nods toward it before shrugging out of his wool coat and settling it on the concrete, gesturing toward it as if it's a picnic blanket beneath a brilliant spring sunshine instead of a narrow coat on a grubby train platform. She realizes that one of his shirtsleeves is rolled to the elbow, his forearm wrapped in a white gauze bandage.

"Thank you," she says, maneuvering herself to sit, folding her legs carefully together and tugging gently on the hem of her skirt. The older couple beside them shifts slightly in an attempt to give them more space, and Edward nods in gratitude.

"Thanks very much," he says, lowering himself beside her, and the old man eyes Edward's uniform, his injured arm.

"Thanks to you, lad," he says, and before Edward can reply, the man turns back toward his wife.

"So," Edward says, picking up the thread of conversation they'd dropped at the cry of the siren as he settles himself against the brick wall behind him. "What are you doing in London?" Posters above him pretend there isn't a war on: _PARAMOUNT THEATRE _advertises _I Was an Adventuress_ with Richard Greene; _Don't forget the BOVRIL!_ calls a carrot from inside a steaming pot.

"I moved here to live with my grandmother after my father died," Bella replies, and even in the dim light beneath the city streets, she sees his eyes lower, watches his face fall.

"That's right," he says softly, turning his hat around in his hand. "Your dad." His voice is unexpectedly melancholy, and it's been years since Bella has let herself feel sad without any of the other things that went along with it: shame, anger, guilt, bitterness. She doesn't know if she's ever really let herself just feel the grief of losing Charlie without feeling like she had to focus on how he left, that leaving at all was a choice he made. Edward looks up at her. "I'm sorry about your dad."

"Thank you," she replies, her voice soft to match his. Then, she forces herself to plow forward. "Is your family still in Forks?"

"Yes," he says, shifting his weight on the hard concrete. "Riley graduated last year, and Emmett just started his junior year."

"My goodness," Bella replies, remembering the Cullen boys from so long ago: Riley, blond and blue-eyed like his father, subdued and serious; Emmett, dark-haired and dark-eyed, a grinning, dimpled imp of a child. Once more, she recalls Edward: strapping, striking, smiling, even as a gangly adolescent. "They must miss you."

"My mother wasn't too thrilled with my decision," Edward allows, absently fingering the dressing on his arm. "'Looking for trouble,' she kept saying. 'Why, Edward? Why on earth would you go looking for trouble?'"

Bella doesn't want to ask the same question, even as it sits ready to fly off the tip of her tongue. "And your father?"

Edward purses his lips. "My father is a very academic man," he says finally. "He understood on an intellectual level. But he shared, to a point, my mother's concern."

Bella can just imagine the Cullens standing on a platform as their beloved child, Forks's favorite son, ventured into the most dangerous part of the world without a faltering step.

They descend into a momentary silence, watching as people trudge along the tunnel, seeking places to settle. Finally, Edward breaks it. "Why didn't you leave? When things started to look bad, why didn't you go home?"

This time, the answer is there, just waiting to be voiced. "This is my home."

He doesn't look surprised by this. "You like it here?"

"I do." He makes a face, and she laughs. "You don't?"

"I don't know. I haven't honestly seen much of it, but I do know it's bloody cold and it rains all the damn time and I still don't get what all the fuss is about when it comes to hot tea."

Bella laughs. "Cold and rainy? It's as if you grew up in California instead of Forks."

He echoes her laugh. "True. Though it feels different here. Perhaps it's just life on an airfield, but I have a devil of a time staying warm." After a moment of silence, he asks, "Is there anything you miss?"

Somewhat surprised by the question, Bella takes a moment to consider it. "The green," she says finally, the memories of lush treescapes and moss hanging heavy off branches, long, unkempt growth along the sides of the highway and the neat rectangle of grass beneath her bedroom window still fresh in her mind. "I miss the green."

Edward nods. "Not a lot of green in London."

"No."

"Is that it?"

"I miss Hersey's Kisses."

At that, he laughs out loud. "Hershey's Kisses?"

"Don't laugh! They were my favorites, and you can't get them here."

"Hershey's Kisses," he murmurs incredulously, shaking his head slightly with a chuckle. "Well, my mother is always sending me things. Packages. I'll ask her in my next letter to include some for you."

"Oh," she says, flushing slightly. "You don't have to do that." But the implication beneath his words—that tonight isn't just a one-off—makes her feel warm and light despite the dank, dark tunnel in which they're huddled. When he says nothing, she asks, "What do _you_ miss?"

"Meatloaf," he says without hesitation, and this time, she's the one laughing.

"Really?"

"Really. My mother makes the best meatloaf in Washington. She makes it every Sunday. There's nothing here that's even remotely like meatloaf."

"No, I suppose not." She tries to remember meatloaf, but her father had never been much for cooking, and more of their dinners than not took place at the local diner. Her grandmother had been a bang-up cook, but meatloaf was certainly not in her culinary arsenal. "My nan made a wicked roast dinner," she says, mouth watering at the memory.

"Yeah?"

"Roast potatoes and Yorkshire puddings and parsnips and cabbage and roast beef with gravy."

"Okay, we're going to need to stop talking about food," Edward says, rubbing his flat stomach through his starched blue shirt.

"The packet of crisps didn't quite hit the mark?" she teases, and he shakes his head sadly.

"Not even close."

"What's the RAF food like?"

His grimace gives away his answer before he even speaks. "Dreadful. The best thing there is the tea, and I'd still prefer it iced." He leans forward conspiratorially. "Let me ask you something. Steak and kidney pudding. Did you know it's actually made with _kidneys_?"

"Well, of course, it is."

Edward shudders. "I thought it was steak and kidney _beans_. Not _actual_ kidneys."

Bella giggles, but it's cut off by the sudden tremble of the ceiling above them. The low hum of conversation yields to complete silence, save the wail of a baby a ways up the tunnel. "That felt close," Bella says when murmurs of conversation resume, and Edward nods, fingering his bandage again.

"It did." He seems distracted, fingers still tracing the white gauze and tape along his forearm, so she takes advantage of the opportunity.

"What happened?"

He follows her gaze to his arm, and his fingers still. "Got hit. Managed to get the plane back close enough to the airfield, but had to land her wheels up. There was a fire in the cockpit. Got a big singed."

"'A bit singed'?" she echoes, staring at the bandage as if she'll be able to assess the damage through its dressing. "You burned yourself?"

"Well, _I_ didn't burn myself. Some Jerry bastard burned me."

"Are you all right?"

"Back in fighting shape by week's end," he replies, holding his forearm aloft, and while she wouldn't admit it aloud, she almost wishes the answer had been a no. Or, at least, enough of a no to mean he wasn't going to be sent back. "It's a relatively minor injury, compared to most. But they worry about infection, which is why I'm grounded for a few more days."

"What type of plane do you fly?"

"At the moment, a Spitfire. But I can fly a Hawker Hurricane as well."

Knowing nothing at all about British fighter planes, Bella simply nods. "Where were you flying when you were hurt?"

He cocks his head to one side but says nothing, and almost immediately, Bella flushes. In all likelihood, there's a poster somewhere in this very tunnel reminding him not to tell her.

_Loose lips sink ships!_

_The Torpedo is listening!_

_A careless word, a needless sinking!_

"Right. Sorry."

Edward merely offers an apologetic half shrug, and Bella, still faintly embarrassed, switches the topic entirely. "So tell me what Forks is like these days."

Edward grins. "What makes you think it's any different from when you left?"

"All right, tell me what the _people _are like these days."

"Ah." Edward leans back slightly. "Anyone in particular?"

Bella's mind briefly runs through the people she'd known, been friends with years ago. "Angela Weber?"

"Her father is still the pastor at the Baptist church. She teaches the kids' Sunday school and the teenagers' Bible study classes. She's engaged to be married to Ben Cheney."

Bella smiles at the memory of her gentle, kind friend. She remembers how soft-spoken, gentle-hearted Angela was the one to stand up for her when her next-door neighbor, Lauren Mallory, had tried to steal her spinning top. "What about Lauren Mallory?" she can't help but ask, only faintly ashamed to realize she's hoping to hear something unflattering. Edward falters, and when she glances at his face, he looks uneasy.

"Lauren Mallory?"

"Yes. Lauren Mallory." An unpleasant suspicion sneaks over her, and she hopes she's wrong. It would be too unfair for someone like Lauren Mallory to get someone like Edward. "Her family lived in the house next door to my father's."

"Yes," he says, fiddling with his bandage once again. "She still lives there."

When he says nothing more, Bella grows exasperated. "And?"

He glances at her. "And, what?"

"Is she horrifically unpleasant-looking? Dreadful hair? Did some terrible misfortune befall her?"

"You don't have particularly happy memories of her, then," Edward says, and Bella breaks eye contact, only slightly embarrassed by her lack of tact.

"Not particularly, no."

"Why's that?"

Bella thinks back to the taunting. To the way Lauren always managed to make her feel ashamed for being motherless. To the fact that she would always snatch anything new of Bella's—spinning top, hula hoop, kite. "She wasn't very kind. She was always taking my things."

"Taking your things," he echoes, and she doesn't miss the traces of amusement on his face.

"Yes. Now tell me why you have that funny look on your face." The horrible thought lingers. "She isn't your girl, is she?"

"No," he says immediately, emphatically, and she's mildly mollified.

"No?"

He shakes his head. "She…well, she wanted to be."

Unsurprised, Bella tilts her head to one side. "Oh, I'll just bet she did."

To her immense amusement, Edward blushes. If possible, it only makes him more attractive, which hardly seems fair. When she's embarrassed, she looks rather unflatteringly like a tomato. Edward, by contrast, has bright spots of color on his cheeks that make her imagine him running around in the cold with a wooly hat and scarf, launching snowballs at his brothers. He clears his throat, glancing around as if in search of a distraction. "She's very persuasive, I'd imagine," Bella presses, and she's both pleased and irritated when his blush deepens.

"She certainly tries to be."

Bella can't help wondering if it's chivalry that's making him so hesitant or shame. Unable to avoid doing so, she imagines Lauren using whatever feminine wiles she's amassed in the years since Bella left, and an unpleasant knot of something distinctly prickly takes up residence in her chest when she imagines Edward succumbing to temptation, even if only momentarily.

"Hm," she sniffs, looking around the people nearby, faintly unsettled by the rather hasty sense of possessiveness she feels toward this man she hardly knows.

She feels rather than sees Edward lean toward her. "She's not my type, though."

"No?" she asks, not looking at him but feeling a small buzz of satisfaction hum through her. She wonders if it reflects poorly on her, the desire for a girl who'd been unkind to her so many years ago to get a small bit of comeuppance. Then she remembers the cutting insults, and she doesn't quite care either way.

"Nope. Too blond."

At this, she looks at him, and his grin melts any lingering exasperation. "You don't like blondes?" His only reply is a shrug. "Lana Turner?"

"I'm more of a Vivien Leigh fan," he replies, with a smile her grandmother would have described as "cheeky."

While the admission might have nothing whatsoever to do with her personally, she can't help feeling pleased by his tacit admission that he prefers brunettes. "Well, it doesn't get better than Jimmy Stewart for my money," she says, and while the physical comparison isn't obvious, there's something about the film star's slow drawl and boyish charm that makes her think of small-town, all-American high school boys with easy smiles, laughing eyes, and paper routes.

"He was good in _Mr. Smith Goes to Washington_," Edward agrees, shifting his weight on the concrete.

"And _Next Time We Love_," Bella adds.

"I haven't seen that one."

"Margaret Sullavan," she says, then arches one brow. "Another blonde."

"Ah. Must be why I haven't seen it," he replies, cheeky smile in place.

"Must be," she agrees, trying unsuccessfully to battle her own smile.

"Anyone else?" he asks, and it takes her a moment to remember what they were talking about before the conversation devolved into hair color and film stars.

"Oh. Um." She thinks back to her life in the States, to the people who populated it. "Not really, I suppose. Who are you close with?"

"Well, Jasper Whitlock's been my best friend since we were in short pants," he replies, and the name is like a key opening a chest of memories. She can remember Jasper, the rascally counterpart to Edward's trustworthy, and a smile pulls at her mouth.

"Ah yes. And whatever became of Jasper?"

"He's here with me, actually," Edward replies, and Bella is sufficiently surprised. Jasper Whitlock doesn't seem the type to adhere well to the regimented life of the armed forces, let alone the type to go to war on another country's behalf.

"Really?"

Edward grins. "He said he'd be damned if he was going to let me get all the glory for myself. Said my head would be too big to fit in the darn cockpit otherwise." Bella can hear it in Edward's voice, the brotherly affection, and it makes her smile even as her mind floats to Alice once again. She breaks his gaze, looking around at the tired gaggle of Londoners sitting on the platform, waiting. Waiting for what, heaven only knows. Waiting for the all-clear? Waiting for one of the Luftwaffe's bombs to penetrate the ground and decimate the station, as it had the Balham tube station only a few weeks prior? Bella shudders as she remembers the details she'd heard: the blast itself, the broken gas and water mains, the water that flooded the tunnels and drowned countless people trapped inside.

Another shudder above, and it's mirrored in the tremor that runs through Bella's own body.

"Are you cold?" Edward asks, leaning toward her slightly. She is, but she doesn't want to admit either to being cold or to being faintly frightened.

"I'm all right," she replies, and Edward smiles.

"I'd offer you my coat, but it's currently being repurposed."

"Well, I very much appreciate its current purpose."

He dips his head, and they lapse into silence, listening to the not-nearly-distant-enough rumbles overhead.

"They say the Luftwaffe has been shifting its focus from bombing shipping centers and convoys to targeting RAF airfields and infrastructure," Bella says finally, trying not to picture in grisly detail the scene unfolding above their heads.

"They?"

"On the wireless. And in the papers."

"Ah." He nods. "It seems that way, yes." But he offers nothing more, and Bella doesn't want to prod him for fear of making him uncomfortable, so she switches tack. "Do you think Roosevelt will win reelection?"

"I can't imagine Americans will want to change leadership at a time like this."

"Britons did."

Edward shrugs. "True. But I think Willkie's a dark horse, and Roosevelt is promising that the US won't get involved in any foreign wars if he's reelected."

"Do they genuinely believe it will stay a foreign war?"

"They hope it will. I don't think they believe Hitler would try to extend his campaign across the ocean. They think he'll stop at controlling Europe."

Bella thinks about the damage that has rained down on her beloved city, about the refugees she's already seen who have arrived in England to escape the steadily encroaching parade of hatred marching its way across the continent. About the children of London who have been sent away from their homes and their parents in an attempt to keep them safe. "And they're okay with that?"

As if he's heard the note of bitterness in her voice, Edward considers her for a moment. "I don't think so. But I don't think they truly understand what's happening. Not to the degree you do, anyway. It's easy to stay out of it when it feels like it's happening half a world away."

"But you didn't."

"No. I didn't."

The sudden swell of respect she feels for him might have knocked her over, had she been standing. As it is, she has to fight the urge to reach out and touch him, if only a soft brush of her hand against his. "What do your parents think?"

At the mention of his family, an affectionate smile steals across his face. "My mother's a card-carrying Democrat, and my father's a millionth-generation Republican. I think they decided very early on in their marriage not to discuss politics in the house—at least, not within earshot of their kids."

"Do they think the US should stay out of it?"

Tipping his head to one side, Edward considers the question. "I'm honestly not sure. If I had to guess, I'd say that, before I volunteered to come over, they were probably leaning toward non-interventionism. But now…I'd imagine they want whatever would ensure the quickest end to the war with as few casualties as possible."

"So…probably the same thing a million European parents are feeling."

"Probably, yes." Despite the heavy subject matter, there's a distinct look of amusement about him, and when he says nothing more, Bella raises her eyebrows.

"What?"

"You're very outspoken. I don't think I ever knew this about you."

Bella rolls her eyes. "Honestly, Edward. I was twelve when I left Forks. What are twelve-year-old girls generally outspoken about?"

He laughs. "Excellent point. I haven't the slightest idea. So…what else are you outspoken about?" He leans back against the wall, as if settling in for a story, and it takes Bella a minute to pick apart the question. What else, indeed?

"I don't know, really. I suppose what most girls are outspoken about: the war, the world, the wage."

"The wage?"

"Well, Alice and I, we work at a factory where we're classified as semi-skilled, and yet we only make fifty-three percent of what the men make."

"That hardly seems fair."

"Right. It's hardly fair at all. We're doing the same work, we deserve the same wage."

"Yes. You do."

She nods in satisfaction before feeling slightly embarrassed by her short but impassioned tirade. "So I suppose…things like that." He nods but doesn't say anything, and the amusement she'd noted on his face is still there, evident despite the insufficient lighting in the tunnel. "What are the girls back home outspoken about, then?"

Edward's shoulders hitch. "I wouldn't really know."

"Haven't made it a point to listen?"

He smirks. "Haven't yet found anyone worth listening to," he amends, and she looks away to hide the slight flush in her cheeks and the tiny smile she can't quite stop from lighting on her face. After a few moments, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a knot of knitting.

"What's that?"

"Alice is teaching me," she says, lifting the needles and the snarl of yarn. "Or trying to, anyway. My grandmother tried to teach me when I was young, but I'm pretty terrible. 'All thumbs,' she always said."

"Looks pretty decent to me," Edward offers, and Bella holds up the cluster of string.

"What'dya reckon it's supposed to be, then?"

And to her utter amusement, he looks caught out. "Well, er…a dish towel?"

"Scarf," she corrects, letting her hands—and the knitting—fall to her lap.

"Well, in my defense, a rectangle of fabric could easily become anything. Dish towel, scarf, potholder, washcloth, blanket."

"Something tells me I should have started with a washcloth," Bella grumbles, trying to unsnarl the loose yarn from the tangle it's made in her bag.

"Who's it for?"

Bella shakes her head, squinting to try to separate the strands of forest-green yarn in the dimness. "No one. It's just practice."

"Well, I'd quite like a scarf, given the horrific British weather I find myself suffering in quite regularly."

Looking up in surprise, Bella realizes belatedly that the yarn she's using is a pretty near match for his eyes, and she feels a pleased flush start to creep up her neck. "Honestly, Edward, you look quite sharp in your uniform. This disaster would undermine it terribly."

"Quite sharp, huh?" She bites her lip and focuses intently on the mess she's gotten herself into. When he leans toward her, she feels the warmth coming off his skin, and the absurd thought of cuddling up next to him to stave off the damp cold flits through her mind. "Make me a scarf, Bella."

"I'm sure your mother taught you to say 'please,'" she volleys, trying desperately to remain on top of their joking repartee.

"Please," he murmurs, and as the word rumbles through her, she comes crashing to the alarming realization that, with a plea like that, she'd be helpless to deny him just about anything.

. . .

When they reemerge into the purple-gray light of predawn, the shelter's occupants blink like newborns, peering around as if to catalog what was blasted to rubble during the night. There's a fine haze of smoke hovering between the rooftops and sky that is faintly reminiscent of London fog, except for the fact that it carries the smell of destruction. The barrage balloons overhead glow pink, reflecting the fires that blaze beneath them. There's a bite in the air, an eerie quiet that precedes the city's waking, and Londoners emerge and spill into the street to go about the business of another day.

"Well," Edward says, shouldering gently into his coat. "Another day begun."

"Yes," Bella agrees. For the first time since the blackout began, she's faintly sad at the arrival of morning, knowing that as the darkness ebbs, it will take Edward with it.

"It feels somewhat ridiculous to say that I had a lovely evening," he says, and despite the tiredness sitting in the bags beneath his eyes, there's amusement in their greenness, mirth in the almost-curl of his lips.

"It was my favorite shelter night thus far," Bella says, meeting his half smile and wondering, if absurdly, how horrific her hair must look. She pats it absently as she peeks up at his, which is in wild disarray, as if a flock of sparrows has taken up residence. The thought makes her smile, though she tries to hide it.

"This was my first night in a shelter, as a matter of fact," he replies, rocking back on his heels and tapping his hat against his thigh.

"Pardon?"

There's a small frown on his face. "It doesn't quite feel right. I'm supposed to be fighting, not hiding. Bad enough that I've been relegated to the sideline, even if only for a spell."

"Then why…"

"I couldn't see sending you down alone. And…I wasn't quite ready to say goodnight." The frown is a memory, replaced by a full smile. And oh, she could let herself love that smile. Bella looks away, watching as the beginnings of daybreak appear over the jagged rooftops, feeling the answering smile break free on her lips all the same. "I'm due back at Church Fenton on Sunday, but I'd very much like to see you again before I go."

"You would?"

"I would." His smile softens. "Very much."

"Then I would. Very much."

He beams. "Might you let me buy you dinner tonight? Somewhere a bit nicer than the Kings Arms?"

"Now, don't go insulting my local," she teases, feeling giddily silly in a way she hasn't before.

"My apologies," he replies but continues right along. "I could meet you off the train."

"All right, then."

A slow smile slides over his face. "All right, then. Good day, Bella Swan." He clicks his heels, as if in jest, and turns to make his way in the opposite direction. She watches him go until he's swallowed by the crowd and the near-darkness before turning toward her own home.

Rushing along the streets, Bella assesses the damage to her city, trying not to falter as she passes men and women treading tenderly through the blasted-out ruins of their homes, salvaging what mementos there are to be saved. In more than one spot, children who haven't been evacuated to the countryside sit on piles of rubble and exposed foundations, watching as their parents attempt to sift memories out of the ashes, and Bella's heart twists in her chest. Her steps falter briefly when she nears the end of one road to see the skeleton of a bus reaching toward the hazy sky, the roof of its upper level blown off and pieces of twisted metal reaching fruitlessly upward like broken fingers. Rows of buildings that were once uniform are now like uneven rows of teeth, some missing, some damaged, some still, miraculously, standing. She weaves around AFS volunteers who battle fires, sidesteps the sandbags and water buckets at the ready, and says a silent prayer that a similar scene will not greet her when she reaches her own flat.

_Please, _she chants silently. _Please, let Alice be all right_.

Her anxiety ebbs considerably as she rounds a corner and spies her building, still standing, though the one across the road is a shell, walls leaning drunkenly toward each other, the roof gone. Fleetingly, she thinks of the little boy and girl who lived there before being evacuated and prays that their mother and father heeded the siren's warning. She can't imagine sending children away; she has an even harder time picturing children returning home only to find their parents gone.

"Alice?" she calls, pushing their door open. "Are you here?"

"I'm here," comes the voice from the direction of the kitchen, and Bella feels her entire body sag with relief. While she hadn't allowed herself to consider the possible alternative, she realizes belatedly how potent the fear was. Always is, really. "Well, don't you look a right state," Alice teases as Bella drapes her purse and gas mask over the back of a kitchen chair. "Tube station?"

Bella nods. "Out back?"

Alice returns the nod. "When the Mitchells' building got hit, I thought we were in for it," she says, shaking her dark head.

"Were Pam and Arthur—"

"They're all right," Alice cuts her off. "They'd gone into the shelter not too long before."

Bella exhales heavily. "Thank goodness."

"Fancy a cuppa?"

"Please." Bella crosses the small kitchen to retrieve the strainer and a teaspoon from the drawer. "Any word?" she asks, knowing the answer already. The tension around Alice's eyes is still there, the grim set of her mouth undeniable.

"No," she says quietly, lighting the gas cooker. "No word."

"Well, it's bound to be a mess, sorting everything out. Rose was just saying last night that her brother's letters take months to turn up." She reaches over and sets her hand on Alice's. "You mustn't give up hope, Alice."

Her friend turns sad eyes toward her and pats her hand. "I won't," she says, but the fight in her is waning, and this is nearly as upsetting as any other part of it. In all the time she's known Alice, Bella has never ceased to be amazed at the amount of ferocity in someone so tiny. It seems foolish to admit, but Alice is her talisman of hope. She tells herself that as long as there are defiant, fearless Londoners like Alice, surely Britain won't fall to Hitler, no matter how many bombs he drops under cover of darkness. But the glumness in Alice this morning lets more fear than Bella would cop to seep into her heart.

"Spend the night in the tube, then?" Alice asks, deliberately diverting the subject, and Bella nods. Alice's tiny nose wrinkles. She hates the tube station shelters.

"Strangest thing," Bella says. "I ran into a boy I knew from home in the pub."

Alice pauses in making the tea, half turning toward Bella with surprised eyes. "Home as in America?"

Bella realizes as she nods that it's been years since she referred to the US as home. "Edward Cullen. He was a few years ahead of me."

"What's he doing here, then?" Alice asks, resting a hip against the counter.

"He's a volunteer with the RAF."

Both of her friend's eyebrows lift. "I didn't realize there were Yanks in the RAF."

"There aren't many," Bella allows, feeling an odd sense of pride sweep through her on Edward's behalf. Alice's knowing eyes don't miss it.

"You fancy him," she says, lips twisting slightly, and her gray eyes dare Bella to deny it.

"I don't…I hardly know him." It's a thin argument, and they both know it.

"Will you see him again?"

"He's asked me to dinner tonight."

Alice smiles suddenly, a knowing, amused, affectionate smile. "Hardly know him, indeed."

. . .

True to his word, Edward meets Bella at the train station, and she takes a moment to appreciate how dapper he looks in his uniform in the bright light of late afternoon. His posture is rigid, almost official. The details on his uniform gleam: the brass buttons, the buckle of his belt, the toes of his shoes, the dark brim of his hat. The bandage is once again hidden beneath his sleeve, and that tiny alteration makes a world of difference. She can't deny the potent image of the man standing before her. As she approaches, he removes his hat, and a warm smile spreads over his face as he tucks it beneath his arm.

"Hello," she murmurs as she draws to a halt before him, and he grins down at her.

"Hello. You look lovely."

Reflexively, she glances down at the clothes she'd hastily changed into before leaving work: the navy skirt and white sweater she hasn't worn in months, the small string of pearls that had been one of her grandmother's most prized possessions. "Thank you. So do you."

Redonning his hat, his smile turns faintly wry. "Shall we?" Bella slips her arm through the one Edward offers, and they make their way out of the station and along the sidewalk.

The restaurant he's chosen is a small one tucked between a barber and a newsagent, and it's been so long since she was even in a restaurant that wasn't the pub that she pauses on the threshold, simply taking it in. Then she feels a gentle hand in between her shoulder blades, and she wonders if he can feel the uneven thud of her heart beneath his palm. "Is this all right?"

"This is wonderful."

They settle into a small table—with a tablecloth! —and there's no time even to start a conversation before a waiter appears, clutching small menus.

"You really do look lovely," Edward says after he's vanished, and Bella is thankful for the relative cover of darkness as warmth creeps up her neck.

"Thank you." Absently, her hand lifts to the pearls at her throat. "These were my nan's."

His face softens. "They're lovely too." They lapse into silence once again, and she yearns momentarily for the easy banter of the previous day that has somehow vanished in this candlelit restaurant. They're in the strange in-between: not quite dark outside, not quite time for the blackout curtains to be lowered, but just dusky enough to imply evening and nightfall and intimacy. She swallows. He notices.

"If you'd prefer we go somewhere else, or—"

"Not at all," she interrupts. "It's just…I feel like I'm a bit out of practice."

His expression turns impish. "At courting?"

The heat in her neck spreads. "At…dining out." A pause, and she returns his smirk, at last finding her footing. "Are we courting?"

After that, they melt back into the familiar give-and-take of the previous day, awkwardness fading with the dying sunlight, and they barely notice when the restaurant workers quietly lower the blackout curtains at the windows. In a stark contrast to the way she feels when they're lowered at home—hemmed in, trapped, cut off from the outside world—here, it only adds to the sense of intimacy, and she wonders how much of that is the ambiance and how much of it is Edward.

Dinner arrives—tomato soup and roast chicken and boiled potatoes—and they trade small talk as they eat, more stories of home and more stories of here, tales of the airfield and the munitions factory, anecdotes about his fellow airmen and her girlfriends. They detour briefly into speculation about the election happening an ocean away, unable to avoid serious conversation entirely, before veering back to laughing about the practical jokes Jasper likes to play on the new airmen. Long before she's ready, the plates have been cleared away, the bill paid, and they're standing on the sidewalk, cloaked in darkness and the eerie silence of near-empty city streets.

"Are you going home, or going to the shelter?"

"I told Alice that if we made it through dinner without the siren, I'd see her at the flat."

He nods, holding out an elbow, and she slips her arm through it and falls into step beside him. Navigating the short distance between the restaurant and her flat, they settle into a companionable silence as if in deference to the quiet around them, until the distant rumble of a plane's engine breaks through the quiet stillness. She tenses, hand tightening on Edward's forearm, and she nearly stumbles when her instincts make her freeze even as Edward's steady gait tugs her forward. He slows, glancing down at her and placing a warm hand atop hers, squeezing gently. "It's one of ours," he says quickly, firmly, eyes piercing. "That's a Spitfire. It's one of ours."

"Oh," she whispers, looking into the inky black above them. Still, Edward's pace quickens, and she hurries to keep up with the speed of his long legs. Faster than she'd expected, she finds herself standing on the pavement outside her flat, Edward peering down into her face.

"If they're in the air, they must be expecting something. You'll go into the shelter tonight, right?"

She peers up at him through the darkness. "If the sirens go. Alice and I go out back with the family from over the road."

"You'd be safer in the tube station."

Her first instinct is to argue—it's such a hassle, going to the tube station—but she recognizes the pleading look in his eyes and, really, she hates the Anderson shelter just as much as she hates the tube, so it hardly matters either way. "All right," she agrees, and his shoulders relax.

"Good. Thank you." He nods, then blows out a breath. "Well—"

"Tomorrow," she blurts, wincing at the sudden crack of her voice in the quiet stillness of the night. "Tomorrow," she says again, slightly softer. "Would you like to come 'round for tea?"

He grins, teeth flashing white in the dark. "Tea-tea, or dinner-tea?"

She laughs. "Dinner-tea. I'm a pretty terrible cook, but I can probably be trusted to give the RAF canteen a run for its money. And you can meet Alice."

"Ah, well, if Alice will be here." She smacks him on the shoulder, and he catches her hand as she withdraws it. "I'm afraid I can't, though. I have to see to some business in town in the afternoon, and I can't say for certain how long I'll be."

"Oh." Bella tries desperately not to let the disappointment show, but she knows she's failing miserably when he speaks again.

"I could…come by afterward? Escort you both to the shelter for the night?"

"Or you could join us in it."

His lips twist, and she remembers his confession that it made him feel cowardly, to huddle beneath the city streets instead of flying fighter planes in the air above them. Still, she's not above playing a little dirty pool. "I'd like to…see you as much as possible. Before you have to go back."

The smile that breaks over his face gives her the answer before his voice does. "Well, now, how could a guy resist a request like that one?"

She flushes, then smiles. "Good, then."

"Good," he echoes. His grin turns softer. "Well, then. Goodnight, Bella Swan."

"Goodnight, Edward. Thank you for dinner."

"It was my pleasure." He leans in, pressing the gentlest of kisses to her cheekbone. This close, she can smell him: the wool of his uniform, the Brylcreem in his hair, a faint trace of soap. Her heart races, and her cheek burns even as his lips pull away. "See you tomorrow."

. . .

Bella eyes the vegetables, allowing her mind to wander for a moment as the earthy perfume of produce wafts around her. What she wouldn't give for some of the things that have disappeared from Britain since the start of the war: bananas, lemons. The bright rinds of the oranges taunt her, but the small printed sign before them—_For Children Only_—makes her force herself to ignore the sudden craving.

She selects a pair of potatoes, a small cluster of carrots, and an apple from the neat piles of vegetables and fruit arranged before her, holding them up for the greengrocer's inspection and paying the tally he barks out.

Inside the butcher two doors down, she fishes out her ration booklet and accepts her four ounces of bacon for the week. As she always does when she shops, she reminisces about her grandmother's Sunday breakfasts, what she always called "good English fry-ups," and her mouth waters at the thought of a platter of bacon, beans, eggs, tomatoes.

Just as she's stepping out from the butcher's shop, she turns to the left and begins walking up the road toward home when suddenly, up ahead, a familiar figure in a smart-looking uniform appears on the sidewalk from the front door of a terraced house, and her heart picks up. Edward half turns, and she's about to call out when a beautiful blond woman appears behind him, hovering on the front stoop. Bella slows, watching as Edward turns fully and says something to the woman, who drops her gaze to the concrete, a small smile on her mouth. She nods, still looking down, and Edward reaches out and takes her hand. Bella stops altogether. She watches as the woman lifts her gaze and peers up at Edward, nodding again and bringing both of her hands together around Edward's one. After a moment, he leans in and kisses the woman's cheek before stepping back and replacing his hat on his head. He gestures toward the door and waits for the woman to disappear back inside before he turns and makes his way up the road.

Bella watches the neat line of his body walk away from her, and she feels betrayed. Then she feels silly for feeling betrayed. "Vivien Leigh, my left foot," she grumbles, turning on her heel and crossing the street.

An hour later, she's debating the merits of letting Edward spend the night in the shelter alone. "It would serve him right," she grouses into her empty kitchen, peeling the apple and cutting a slice with the small paring knife. She relishes the crunch of the slice between her teeth, the explosion of juice against her tongue. She imagines it's only a matter of time before apples join the list of things that are nowhere to be found.

Try as she might, she can't quite banish the memory of Edward emerging from that woman's door in the bright afternoon light. She isn't sure whether or not she's imagining that he wore a small, satisfied smile, can't quite recall if his body was moving with languid relaxation or if that's a detail that her darker suspicions have superimposed on the memory.

Again, she pictures herself not turning up at the shelter, but she knows as she deposits the apple core in the rubbish bin that she won't be able to resist the temptation to go for two reasons. One, she needs to know. Despite the very real possibility that Edward won't turn out to be the man she thought he was, that he may very well reveal himself to be a cad, she needs to know for certain. The other is that, with the way the world is, she can't simply not turn up. She knows that if the roles were reversed, her mind would imagine the absolute worst, and irritated though she might be, she can't find it in herself to let Edward worry that the worst-case scenario has befallen her.

Running her hands beneath the tap, she glances out the small kitchen window, noting how the corrugated metal of the Anderson shelter's entrance glows dully beneath the muted sunshine. Reaching for the tea towel, she nods to herself.

She packs explosives for a living. She has survived the losses of those closest to her. She has stood strong as her beloved adopted city has burned and shivered around her. She fears nothing. Not even disappointment.

. . .

"There she is," Edward says, straightening from where he was leaning against the wall, brilliant smile in place. "Brightest sight in all of dreary London."

Bella's steps falter, and she can feel the frown she tries to hide pulling at her face. Pursing her lips, she reminds herself to be a lady, no matter what. "Hello, Edward."

To his credit, Edward notices the distinct lack of warmth that has characterized their previous interactions, and he frowns. "Everything all right?"

"Everything's fine," she replies coolly. "See to your business, did you?"

"Sorry?"

"Your business. Get it all taken care of?"

"I did, in fact," he says, still frowning.

"Marvelous."

She makes a move to head past him and into the tube station, but Edward reaches out and stills her with a hand on her elbow. "Bella, what's the matter?"

"Whatever do you mean?" A pathetic attempt at acting. Rosalind Russell, she most certainly is not.

His frown deepens. "I'm not a complete simpleton. Something's bothering you."

As if realizing that she has little if anything to lose, she shrugs, despite her grandmother's voice at the back of her mind reminding her that to shrug is a common habit. "I saw you on the High Street today after work."

"You did?" He seems surprised but not at all embarrassed.

"I did. You were leaving a house. A lady's house." She tries not to inwardly comment that she's using the term "lady" quite loosely.

"Right," he says, looking at her expectantly, as if waiting for more.

"Yes."

"That's it?"

She feels adrift, and she can't say that she quite cares for it. She says nothing, and Edward's eyes flicker. "Wait a minute. Are you…" He doesn't insult her by saying the word aloud, but knowledge glows behind his eyes. "Oh, Bella." He chuckles, and irritation rises hot and indignant in her chest. "That's…not what you're clearly thinking. That was Kate. She's the wife of an RAF pilot I befriended here." He pauses, a good fraction of the amusement dying on his face. "Well, the _widow_ of an RAF pilot. We were friends, and he asked me to promise to check in on his wife and baby daughter if anything happened to him. Last month, he was shot down by the Luftwaffe. And I always keep my promises."

Bella says nothing, feeling a million unpleasant things at once: guilt, embarrassment, shame, unease. But when she forces herself to meet Edward's eye, he doesn't look disappointed in her or even insulted. Instead, the amusement is back. "You thought I was…" He doesn't embarrass either one of them by putting voice to thought, but his eyebrows dance and she blushes all the same. "I'm trying to work out if I should be flattered or insulted. Frankly, I'm wavering between the two." But there's no trace of offense in his expressive eyes, so Bella lets herself focus on the flattery.

"Well, you hear all about the soldiers with girls in every port," she mumbles, flush deepening at the implication.

"First of all, I'm an airman. Not a soldier. Secondly, I'm in the RAF, not the Royal Navy—we don't have 'ports.'"

Huffing in exasperation, Bella crosses her arms over her chest. "Fine. Girls in every airfield."

"Clearly you've never been to an airfield. It's hardly a romantic spot for a rendezvous."

"You're teasing me," she says.

"I am. It's highly enjoyable."

"It's highly ungallant."

"And insinuating that I'm a womanizing cad isn't impolite?"

The wind vanishes from her sails, and she visibly deflates, arms falling to her sides. "I'm sorry. You're right. That was terribly rude of me."

"Hey," he says. "Bella, I'm only kidding. It's fair. You're not wrong. The number of men in the squadron who do exactly what you're implying…well, they're there. Those men. But I'm not one of them."

And she believes him, even if she isn't sure why. Certainly, the men who do bed women all over the war zone spill the same pretty words as Edward, but something in her makes it impossible not to believe him. Still, she presses. "You're not?"

"I'm not," he says with an emphatic shake of his head. "When I have a girl, I'm a one-girl kind of guy."

"And how many girls have you had?" she volleys and immediately claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh! Oh, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Honestly." But he's grinning, and even with her hand over her mouth, she's grinning right back at him despite the heat in her cheeks.

"As I said, I'm a one-woman kind of guy. And I haven't found the right one yet." All traces of teasing have vanished from his face; his expression is open, expectant. Honest. Bella's mind races, and she wonders if the implication is accurate. She can only imagine the trail of hearts Edward must have left behind him in Forks. She doesn't have to imagine the eyes he's caught since he arrived in the UK, where American accents are considered exotic, to say nothing of the way he looks in his borrowed uniform.

Is it possible that he's never been in love with a girl? Never been in bed with a girl? Never been in _anything_ with a girl? It doesn't seem possible, but Bella would never dream of insulting him by questioning his assertion. Well, insulting him _further_, anyway. She's done quite enough of that for one day.

He's shifting his weight on the pavement, looking uncharacteristically uncertain, and she realizes she's been silent for far too long in the wake of his confession.

"Oh," she says finally, rather stupidly. "Well, then." Mercifully, the click of Alice's heels on the pavement saves her from her even more humiliation, and she turns to see her friend hurrying toward them, chin tucked into the top of her coat. When Alice's gray eyes lift to meet hers, Bella knows without asking that there's still no news. "Alice!" She loops her arm through her friend's as she draws level with them, and she turns toward Edward. "This is Edward Cullen. We're from the same hometown. Edward, this is my roommate—my best friend, actually—Alice Brandon."

"Pleasure to meet you," Edward says, pulling his cap from his head and tucking it beneath his arm as Alice gives him a once-over.

"Oh, believe me, the pleasure is mine," she replies, smile that is at least half smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth.

They descend into the tube station together, finding a spot big enough for the three of them along the wall about halfway up the platform and settling on the blankets they'd brought. As evening slides into true nighttime, they settle into whispered giggles and long-winded stories, playing cards until they tire of it and ultimately lapsing into occasional conversation and longer silences.

As the sounds of life around them grow steadily quieter and fewer as the other Londoners huddled on the platform gradually drop off into fitful sleep, Alice curls up into the blanket she'd brought down, half buried beneath the dark wool, and Bella does the same beside her, curled on her side facing Edward, who sits with his back pressed against the wall behind him. She wants to urge him to lie down, to sleep, but she knows he won't. It's in his bearing, that even being down here is concession enough for him, and that even if he's technically off duty, he will sit sentry all night long, listening to the distant rumble of life above them, waiting on the unknown.

After a while, she finds she can't drop off despite the undeniable comfort of the combined presence of Alice's spine pressed along her own and Edward's thigh against the point of her elbow. Finally, she sits back up, tugging the edge of the blanket up to her neck and tenting her legs beneath it. Edward cocks an eyebrow in question, and she shrugs. He hesitates only briefly before holding a long arm out in invitation.

A small, silly thrill shoots through her before she shifts, settling herself against his chest as that arm settles around her shoulders, long fingers curling around her upper arm. "Better?" he murmurs, and she hears the words through the warm wall of his chest as much as from his lips.

"Yes. Thank you." After a surprisingly short time, she does find herself lulled into the drowsy in-between of not-quite sleep, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath her ear, his warmth a comforting blanket of its own. He doesn't speak, and she allows herself to doze, absorbing as much of him through as many of her senses as she can. When she startles back to wakefulness an unknowable amount of time later, it's to dark stillness. She's holding her breath, trying to determine what's jolted her awake, but the night is blessedly quiet, no plane's engines or bomb's explosions above them, very little noise around them. She tilts her head back, peering up through the darkness to find Edward looking down at her, a pinch of concern between his brows.

"All right?" he murmurs, and she nods, suddenly fascinated by the shape of his lips in the darkness. She doesn't know how long she stays there, staring at his mouth, but when one corner of it ticks upward in amusement, she feels herself flush. And yet, when she drags her eyes up to meet his, it's his focus that is now on her mouth, and it's suddenly insufferably warm in the woolen cocoon of her blanket. Before she can untangle herself from it, though, Edward's head dips, and those lips are suddenly, gently pressed against her own in a whisper of a kiss. She freezes, hearing her own heartbeat now where it bangs behind her eardrums, and it isn't until he pulls back that she realizes she'd frozen like a spooked animal instead of reciprocating. "All right?" he asks again, this time in a whisper that seems faintly breathless, and when she presses her hand to the space on his chest where she'd been sleeping, she can feel his heart, thumping more quickly behind the warm starched fabric of his shirt.

"Yes," she whispers, scooting up slightly, closer to his mouth, and he grins at the unspoken invitation, lowering his lips to hers once more.

. . .

Bella is faintly surprised at how painful it is to say goodbye to him, once the trio emerges back into the gray light of morning. "Can I see you for lunch?"

"We don't really get much time for lunch," she says apologetically, thinking of the packed lunch she and the girls race through while still wearing their boiler suits and rubber shoes, hair wrapped in scarves.

"Right, of course. Well. How about a picnic tomorrow afternoon?"

Agreeing to meet at midday, they part ways, Edward dropping a kiss to the apple of her cheek that is only slightly less thrilling than the ones he'd pressed to her lips beneath the cover of near-darkness, and her heart pounds in her chest.

At the look on Bella's face, Alice loops her arm through her friend's and tugs gently. "C'mon, then. Quick cuppa and a wash."

They fall into step beside each other, navigating the short distance to their flat, cataloging the damages from the previous night: the chemist on the corner, reduced to smoldering rubble; the bookshop three doors down, now a blasted-out cavity littered with loose pages from books; a postbox lying on its side, charred and crumpled. Bella thinks, suddenly, that as afraid as she already is for Edward, perhaps the Londoners just trying to live and work around them are in a nearly comparable amount of danger. Perhaps they all are. As Alice's grip tightens on her forearm, Bella wonders if there's a difference between being a casualty of war and collateral damage.

"He seems very nice," Alice says finally, and Bella glances at her friend's face. She's expecting to be teased, but Alice looks earnest.

"He is very nice."

Alice nods. "Quite the snog you two were enjoying, don't think I didn't notice."

Fire steals up her neck, and Bella ducks her head, kicking at a chunk of concrete rubble in the path in front of her. "Alice," she bleats in weak protest, and her friend laughs. A welcome sound, even if it's at Bella's expense, and she's relieved to lose herself in the lighthearted girl talk in lieu of focusing on the destruction around them.

"Can't blame you there," Alice says gleefully, hopping over a felled lamppost. "He's a bit of all right, isn't he?"

"He is, indeed."

"Well, then. He's leaving Sunday?"

"Yes." Immediately, a wide chasm of sadness opens up inside her, the likes of which she hasn't felt in years. Since losing her grandmother, since losing her father. Ridiculous—he isn't even hers to lose—but the possibility that he _could_ be lost, very easily and very finally, makes her feel desperate and reckless and terrified and a host of other foreign, unpleasant things.

"Best get your leg over while he's still here then, eh?"

"What?" Bella turns scandalized eyes on her friend, who only shrugs, one side of her mouth turning upward in a cheeky smile she makes absolutely no attempt to hide.

"Those boys look just as good out of their uniforms as they do in them."

"Alice!"

But her friend simply shrugs again. "Bella, there's a war on. If you can't live a bit wild when there's a war on, when can you?"

"No, I know, but—" Her eyes widen. "You and Jamie…" She doesn't quite know how to finish the question, so she lets it dangle there between them, leaves Alice the freedom to decide how to interpret it, and whether to answer.

"I'm doing my part for the morale. If letting a soldier I love get in my knickers is a sin, then I'll happily accept my penance."

"But…"

"You're in love."

Something in Bella's chest lights up like a carnival attraction. "Yes."

Alice's face is immediately, uncharacteristically serious, and she clutches Bella's hand tightly in both of her own. "If there's anything to be learned in a war, I'd say it's loving in the moment. Because you may not get the next one. If he goes off to fight and doesn't come back, make sure you don't have any regrets about the way you said goodbye."

. . .

Bella finds herself utterly consumed by Alice's advice the entire day—remembering the press of Edward's lips as she's tucking strands of hair into her headscarf, reliving the feel of his heartbeat as she does up her rubber boots, imagining the low rumble of his voice as she times in. As she gauges the depths before inserting the detonators, she tries to imagine something more intimate than the sound of his heart and the press of his lips, but she starts to sweat and forces herself to focus on the task at hand.

Over lunch, Alice gives her a knowing look as they unwrap their food, and Bella averts her eyes, the thrill that shafts through her only slightly tempered by nerves.

By the time she is rushing to meet Edward on the green near her flat on Saturday afternoon, she's managed to work herself into a right state. When she spies him waiting on a dark blanket beneath a bare tree, her heartbeat kicks into a gallop. As she draws near, he rises, taking off his hat and tucking it beneath his arm, and she smiles to herself at the gallantry.

"Hello, Edward," she says, drawing to a halt at the edge of the blanket, and he nods.

"Bella." There's something slightly off about the greeting, his smile a dimmed version of the grin full of teeth she's already come to adore and even expect, and a small quiver of nerves churns in her stomach. He gestures to the blanket. "I hope this is all right."

"It's lovely," she says, but she barely glances down, instead focusing on his face. There's a scarcely detectable furrow between his brows, and a muscle jumps near the hinge of his jaw, as if he's clenching his teeth or chewing at the inside of his cheek. "I brought sandwiches and biscuits. No tea." She tries to lighten the atmosphere with a joke, but he simply nods and holds out a hand toward the blanket again.

"Please."

She settles, as instructed, placing the basket of food to one side and opening the lid to lay out the spread. Conversation is nearly nonexistent, and she feels the knot of uncertainty and self-doubt and anxiety tightening as she tries to eat her sandwich, each swallow more difficult than the last.

Finally, as she's balling up the wax paper from her sandwich, she can't stomach the tension or his atypical aloofness. "Edward, have I done something wrong?"

Cool green eyes turn to her, eyebrows raised as he swallows his own last bite. "Wrong? No, of course not. Why do you ask that?"

She can't put her finger on it exactly, but she knows what she's feeling. "You just seem… off. A bit reserved." Renewed shame sweeps through her, and she drops her gaze to her lap, where she clasps her fingers together. "I really am sorry about my assumption the other day. I truly didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm not offended, Bella. I promise I'm not." But he doesn't deny that something has changed, and the unpleasant knot in her stomach tightens. His eyes slide away, and the silence is nearly more than she can take. "I've been selfish," he says finally.

"Selfish?" she echoes, the utter absurdity of the word nearly enough to make her want to laugh. "Edward, I don't think I've ever known anyone _less_ selfish in my life."

But he shakes his head, and she can see now that his irritation is directed inward instead of outward. The realization isn't nearly as much a relief as she might have expected. "I can't believe it."

"Believe what?" she whispers, holding her breath.

"That I had to go and fall in love in the middle of a war."

"Fall in…" She trails off, eyes wide. "What?"

He shakes his head, watching her warily. "I should get up right now and walk away from you. I should leave you in peace, because what your friend Alice is going through? The last thing I want in the whole world is to put you through that."

"Please don't," she begs, inching toward him on her knees. "Don't walk away."

When he looks back up at her, his eyes are pained. "I've already been so selfish with you, and you know the truly bastardly thing? I want to be more selfish. I want to ask you all sorts of things I have no business asking you. I want you to be my girl, and when this blasted war is over, I want to take you home to Forks and buy you a truckload of Hershey's Kisses and kiss you in the middle of a big green field." Bella swallows the lump in her throat. "And Bella, that makes me truly selfish. Because there's a damn good chance I might not make it back to Forks myself, let alone with you in tow."

"Don't. Please don't say that."

"But it's the truth. There are pilots a damn sight better than I am who don't make it home." But when he looks into Bella's horror-stricken face, his expression finally softens. He reaches up and touches the pad of his finger to the skin just beside her eye. "See? I don't want to know that I'm the one responsible for putting that look on your face."

"Well, I'm afraid it's too late, Edward. If you didn't want my affections, you should have let me walk right past you in that pub."

He nods. "I know. I know I should have." His voice is thick with self-reproach, and Bella angles her body so that she's facing him fully once more.

"I'm glad you didn't. Edward, I don't care what happens. I'm so glad you didn't let me walk past."

He appears to be searching her face for any hint of insincerity, but when he finds none, his eyes fall closed and he leans forward, letting his head drop against her shoulder. "I'm glad too, and that might be the most selfish thing of all." They sit like that for a while, ignoring the steadily deepening chill of the late autumn air, ignoring the cries of migrating blackbirds that fly overhead, ignoring everything, in fact. Then, suddenly, Edward pulls back and reaches into his pocket.

"Damn," he hisses, glancing at his pocket watch. "I've got to get back." He rises, tugging at the hem of his uniform before holding out both hands and pulling her up to face him. "I truly am sorry, Bella. For my selfishness, but also for my behavior today. I ruined what should have been a lovely day."

"You didn't ruin it," she whispers, and when he says nothing, she squares her shoulders. "Edward, I've done it too."

"What?"

"Gone and fallen in love in the middle of a war." His penetrating gaze finds hers, and she can't miss the hope lurking behind his lingering self-recrimination. "And what Alice is going through? I think perhaps it's part of our duty, as important as stuffing gunpowder into shells. I'd go through that proudly if it meant I got to be your girl."

Edward's shaking his head, glancing down between them to where he still holds her small hand in his larger one. "Bella."

Packing her courage into her words with the same determination as she packs munitions, Bella straightens her spine and flips their hands so that she's holding his. "Edward?"

"Hm?"

"Don't let's go to the shelter tonight."

When he frowns, she can see he's missed her meaning, and she tries to grasp her quickly retreating courage with both hands. "You want to use your own shelter instead?"

She shakes her head. "I don't…I don't want to spend our last night together huddled underground with a mass of other people."

He's quiet as an inkling of understanding starts to spread across his face, and she can see his struggle to find any explanation other than the increasingly obvious one. She wants to be brave enough to come right out and invite him into her bed, but she's just about used up the courage she has with the mere implication.

"Bella," he says, but nothing more, and she tightens her grip on his hands.

"You can say no. But I hope you won't."

"I couldn't say no to you for anything," he murmurs, then meets her eye. "And I certainly don't want to now."

Her heart is galloping in her chest, and she can feel her palms going damp where she's gripping his hands. "Okay," she says, the rest of her words having fled her entirely.

"Okay," he whispers in echo, and they stand facing each other beneath a gray sky, cold breeze chasing away the rest of their words.

. . .

This time, it's her waiting on the platform for him, and when he appears, her heart kicks into a gallop once again. Alice has already met up with Rose and Vicky for the night, with plans to go to the shelter with them, and Bella would probably feel embarrassed at the covert planning surrounding all of this if she wasn't so completely absorbed by each individual moment of it. She watches as he approaches, taking in once again the long lines of him in uniform, and when he comes to a stop in front of her, the familiar grin is back, though somehow tempered with something deeper.

"Hello," he murmurs, and for reasons passing understanding, she blushes.

"Hello."

He holds out his arm and she takes it, and they make their way away from the clamor of passengers. Walking along the near-dark streets, the faint sulfuric smell of extinguished fires lingering on the evening air, Bella's heart pounds in her chest nearly in time with the clip of her heels on the pitted sidewalk. Edward's arm is strong beneath her hand, and she clings to him, realizing that neither of them is really leading the other. Without knowing why, she finds the parity comforting, even as the uncharacteristic silence unnerves her. As they near her small flat, Bella is grateful for the darkness; she can only imagine the trepidation and nervousness that are playing over her too-expressive face.

The skyline has all but vanished in the darkness, and she wonders what will burn tonight.

Edward doesn't miss the way her hand shakes as she attempts to insert the key into the lock of her door, and when he reaches out to cover her hand with his own, she looks up into green eyes that shine in the low light.

"We can go to the shelter, Bella," he murmurs, and she wonders if he thinks she's afraid of the bombs, or if he suspects the truth.

She shakes her head; she has never wanted to hide from something less in her life than she wants to hide from this. From him. "I don't want to," she nearly whispers, and the truth of her words is enough to help her find the keyhole and to slide the lock free. She pushes the burgundy door open and steps inside, peering through the darkness. As planned, it is empty, and both the apartment and the street are quiet. She makes her way over to the heavy blackout curtains and pulls them across the windows, careful to make sure the edges overlap the frames to hide the soft yellow light of her living room lamp. When she turns it on, Edward squints in the sudden glow, but he doesn't look away from her face.

Bending at the waist, Bella scoops a magazine and a dirty teacup off the small coffee table, grateful for the sudden distraction. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asks, glancing around the small space for any other litter to collect.

"Sure," Edward says, though his voice is hesitant.

"All right." She escapes to the kitchen, lighting the gas cooker and sliding the small canister of tea forward from the back of the countertop near the sink. The sound of silverware in the drawer when she reaches for a teaspoon is jarring in the silence, and she realizes she can't hear Edward in the living room. Glancing over her shoulder, she finds he's standing on the threshold to the kitchen, broad shoulders just about filling the doorway. He's watching her frankly, as if she's a specimen to be studied or a puzzle to be solved, and she feels heat creep up her neck. Returning her focus to the task at hand, she finds steadiness in the routine of making the tea: warming the teapot, setting the teacups in their saucers, balancing the tea strainer over the lip of one of them.

Spooning the tea into the teapot, she hears the echo of her grandmother's voice in her mind—_a spoonful for each person and one for the pot_—but since the outbreak of war, the Ministry of Food has been advocating _none for the pot_ in anticipation of rationing. Still, she adds an extra all the same, as if it will bring her the courage she so desperately needs tonight.

"How do you take it?" she asks, mind on the small tin of powdered milk in the cupboard above the stove. As always, her thoughts flash briefly to the memory of fresh milk bottles on the doorstep, cream separated and sitting heavily on top. When Edward steps into the small kitchen, her grip on the teaspoon tightens involuntarily.

"Just a bit of sugar, please."

She nods, reaching for the sugar pot. "Biscuit?" His small smile throws her off slightly. "What?"

He shakes his head, but he's still smiling. "It's just…hearing Britishisms in your American accent. It's…" He shakes his head again, then shrugs. "It's adorable, actually."

She thinks back over her words, frowning slightly. "Oh. Biscuit?"

"Biscuit," he echoes, and immediately, she sees what he means. A smile to match his slides over her face.

"What else have I said?"

"Packet of crisps," he replies with his own Yankee affectation, and her smile widens.

"You're right."

"Right?"

"Adorable." She blushes, but his grin is brighter than the light in her kitchen, and she relaxes slightly into the comfort it brings. She finishes making the tea and carries the teacups in their saucers to the table before popping the lid off the biscuit tin and placing it in the middle. She retrieves the teapot from the counter, setting it next to the tin, and forces herself not to feel ridiculous as she gestures toward one of the empty chairs.

Obediently, Edward lowers himself and watches intently as she pours the tea through the strainer; they both pretend not to notice that, once again, her hand is trembling slightly. Settling in the chair across from him, she scoops half a teaspoon of sugar into her own cup and blows across the surface of the tea, sending a small ripple across it. Edward watches her for a moment before reaching for a cookie and popping it into his mouth in one go. Immediately, his eyes widen.

"What are _these_?"

"Custard creams," Bella replies with a knowing smile. "Aren't they terrific?"

Edward grabs another from the tin. "Honestly, these might make missing the meatloaf almost worth it." He pops the second cookie into his mouth, and as he chews, Bella watches as his large fingers wrap around the dainty porcelain teacup. It had been part of her grandmother's favorite set, one with tiny pink rosebuds and gold trim. More teacups were chipped than not, but her grandmother had loved that tea set as if it were the Queen's finest china. Now, the sight of Edward's masculine hand around it makes something entirely new unfurl in Bella's chest, the distinct sense of domesticity that she imagines must come with marriage. The thought of the night that lies ahead of them only serves to deepen the picture, and she forcefully tamps down the nerves that strike up a chorus in her chest.

Edward takes a sip of his tea, and Bella doesn't miss the faint grimace that crosses his face as he gently returns the teacup to its saucer.

"Oh," she groans immediately, remembering. "You don't even _like_ tea."

"I do like tea," he protests, though it's halfhearted at best.

"No, you don't. Oh, Edward, you should have said."

"It's fine, Bella. I don't mind tea. Honestly."

But she's shaking her head, embarrassment a hot sweep through her. He's been humoring her, and it's all the evidence she needs that she isn't playing this nearly as coolly or calmly as she had hoped. "Why didn't you say?"

"It seemed as good an idea as any," he replies softly, eyes trained on her face, and she halts mid-thought, wondering if perhaps _he's_ having second thoughts. _I'm a one-girl kind of guy_, he'd said. What if he's belatedly realizing that she isn't his one type of girl, after all?

"Oh, I'm making a right cock-up of this," she says sadly, and a loud bark of laughter bursts from Edward's lips, taking her by surprise.

"Okay," he says, still chuckling. "That's officially my new favorite. 'A right cock-up.'" He grins, and it's nearly enough to push her mortification aside.

"I'm sorry," she says, and he shakes his head.

"What for?"

But she doesn't have a good answer, doesn't have _any_ answer, and the unpleasant tumble of insecurity and naïveté and anticipation and trepidation and honest-to-God fear rolling around in her stomach is nearly overwhelming.

"Bella," he murmurs, abandoning his teacup and his uneaten third cookie and reaching across the small table to take her hands in his. "I just want to be with you for the rest of the minutes I have left in London. I'll sit up all night and drink tea with you, if that's what you want." His green eyes are earnest.

"That's not what I want," she whispers, gripping his hand tightly and trying to rediscover the surge of courage she'd felt when she invited him back to her flat. His eyes widen slightly; she might not even have noticed, were she not sitting so close to him.

"What _do_ you want?" he asks, voice somehow rough and soft at the same time.

She doesn't answer, instead rising from the table and looking down at him in expectation, her heart very nearly hammering out of her chest at her forwardness. He rises quickly, his hip bumping the lip of the table and sending a splash of tea over the rim of his teacup to pool in the saucer beneath it.

. . .

Bella stands on the opposite side of her bed, trembling. She feels as though she should be embarrassed about the housecoat discarded in the corner, the careless way she'd tossed the bedspread across her mattress that morning instead of making the bed, the haphazard stack of books and papers sitting on the windowsill, but she's too busy panicking about the fact that Edward is here in her dark bedroom.

His green eyes are focused steadfastly on her face, hands at his sides, back straight, and idly she thinks that he's never looked more like a military man than he does in this moment.

He places his hat on the small dresser just inside her door, his forearm knocking over the miniature ceramic flowerpot near the corner. "Sorry," he says quickly, righting the figurine before running his hand through his hair. Then, as if catching himself, he attempts to smooth it back into its more organized arrangement. He blows out a breath, glancing around the small room before looking back at her in expectation. The equality she'd felt as they walked along the city streets is gone; here, now, he's very obviously ceding control to her. Frankly, she's not sure she wants it.

Finally, her own hesitation having gone on nearly long enough to become unbearable, she bends at the waist and slips off her shoes. The thud they make as they fall to the floor is loud in the otherwise silent room. Edward watches, fascinated, as if her stockinged feet are the very definition of illicit. She pauses, staring at him expectantly, and it only takes a moment for him to read her cue before he's toeing off his shiny black shoes and kicking them aside.

Bella presses her lips together to battle her smile and reaches up, unpinning her hair and letting the dark waves fall loosely around her face. As she does so, something in Edward's face softens, and a small, familiar smile catches the corner of his mouth. "That's how I remember you," he says softly, and Bella can almost see that version of herself in his memory, wild hair in disarray and unwilling to be tamed by ribbons.

She smiles, and Edward reaches up to undo his tie, loosening the knot with long fingers before sliding it from beneath the collar of his shirt. He doesn't pause, undoing the line of buttons down the front of his blue shirt and letting it slide off his arms before draping it and the tie on the back of the small chair inside the door. His white undershirt hugs his body, and Bella's breath catches. He's still entirely covered, but this is a level of intimacy she's never known: a man in his shirtsleeves in her bedroom, the world beyond the blacked-out windows dark as soot.

She pauses only briefly before reaching up to her own buttons, undoing them marginally slower than Edward had undone his. When the last button is freed, she takes a breath and opens it, baring her soft-peach-colored bra to his gaze. Suddenly shy, she drops her eyes to focus on folding her blouse, even though she knows it's destined for the laundry basket, but when she finally looks back up at him, he isn't looking at her chest, but at her face. When she meets his eye, he smiles, and warmth floods her. For a brief moment, he goes from the half-dressed man in her bedroom to the all-American boy from her hometown, and she's so grateful for the reminder that a wave of affection for him crashes over her.

After a beat, he reaches behind his neck and grabs the neckline of his undershirt. As he pulls it over his head, it tousles his hair, and despite the landscape of muscles across his chest and midsection that shift with the movement, he suddenly looks even more like the beautiful boy she remembers. Bright eyes, wild hair, soft smile. It's as if the very best parts of him have been preserved inside the breathtaking body of a man, and that she gets to have him to herself, if only for a short window of time, makes elation trip through her veins.

Her heart is thumping heavily in her chest, blood pounding behind her eardrums, and she feels as though her breathing is too loud in the dead quiet around them. But when she studies him, his chest is rising and falling slightly quicker than normal, and she's bolstered by this tiny piece of evidence that he might be nearly as nervous as she is. Reaching back, she finds the small zipper at the back of her skirt and forces herself not to hesitate as she slides it down and slips the garment down and off her legs. This, too, she folds and places atop her blouse.

His suddenly hungry eyes roam over her body, lingering at the scraps of fabric she still wears: brassiere, girdle, panties, stockings. In this moment, she's absurdly grateful that she was thrifty with her nylons and hasn't yet had to resort to drawing the seams up the backs of her legs with an eyebrow pencil. She watches as he stares, finally tearing his eyes from her body to refocus on her face. His swallow is visible, and then his nimble fingers are undoing the belt of his trousers, and it might be the most exhilarating and terrifying thing she's ever seen. The clank of the brass buckle echoes in the small room, and Bella forces herself not to look away as Edward lets go of the waistband and his trousers fall to the floor. He steps out of them and kicks them aside, beneath the chair that holds his shirt and tie. The white cotton of his shorts nearly gleams in the soft light, and every inch of Bella's skin prickles with heat.

She reaches for the snap of the first garter, but Edward takes a step forward. "Wait," he says, voice rough like she's never heard it. His eyes dart between her face and her fingers. "May…" He licks his lips, then gestures toward her thigh. "May I do that?"

Heat roars through her, robbing her of her voice, and she nods. Edward rounds the bed slowly, coming to stand in front of her. After a short pause, he lowers himself to sit on the edge of her narrow mattress before peering up at her. Reaching out, he gently touches the clasp Bella had been reaching for with the pad of a single finger. "Just…you'll have to show me. Only the first one." There's a tiny tremble in his voice, and the heat that just about turned her mind to mush makes Bella's heart go liquid.

"Here," she murmurs, taking his warm hand in hers and using her thumb and forefingers to slip the clasp against the front of her thigh free. "Easy."

He nods, tracing the top of her stocking to the back of her thigh, and every inch of her skin erupts in gooseflesh. Edward is a quick study; his long fingers make short work of the first clasp. Tipping his head back, he peers up at her as his other hand moves to the clasp at the front of her left thigh. Her breath catches in her throat as she feels the feather-light tickle of his fingertips against her skin. Then, he frees the last clasp, and the straps hang loose around her thighs. "May I?" he whispers, and she nods quickly. When his palms come to rest on the bare skin above the top edge of her right stocking, she forgets how to breathe. Bella watches, fascinated, as his hands gently slide her stocking down her leg. As he peels the second one away, she tries to focus on him in an effort to control herself.

His wild hair that seems to shift to a million different shades of copper and gold in the yellow lamplight. His golden skin, which belies the fact that he's been in the cold gray of England for months. The lean ropes of muscles over his shoulders and back; the smooth column of his neck. The way his short hair comes to a point at the back of his neck, and the sparse scattering of hair over his chest.

He's beautiful; there's no denying it.

He stands, watching her intently, and she realizes they're plum out of innocuous articles of clothing. Whatever is shed next is going to bare something that will make this very real. As if her thoughts have played out on her face, Edward nods, almost to himself, before sliding the tips of his fingers beneath the elastic waistband of his undershorts and pushing them off his hips.

And Bella thinks she might die on the spot. Because for all he looks like that young boy from Forks, there's no denying the utter _man_ness of Edward now. That part of him is large, larger than she imagined, and she wonders if it's larger than normal, or if that's just her complete and utter inexperience talking. Are they all that big? Though he _is_ quite tall, so perhaps it's a matter of proportion? Edward coughs nervously, and she realizes she's been staring at him—at that part of him—since he dropped his shorts, and heat steals across her cheeks. Her eyes lift to his face, and she realizes he's blushing.

"You're beautiful," she says before she can think her words over, and his blush deepens.

"Fairly certain you're the beautiful one here," he murmurs, voice breaking somewhere in the middle.

Forcing herself to meet his bravery, Bella reaches behind her and undoes the clasp of her bra. She falters for the briefest of moments before letting the straps slide down her arms, watching Edward's eyes as they do. Eyes which lower and darken as they fall on her bared breasts, and Bella is surprised by the rush of power that floods her at his faintly amazed expression. His hand rises, apparently of its own volition, and he pauses with it poised in the air between them. She nods slightly. Expecting the feel of his hand on her breast, she's surprised when he places his palm flat against her sternum, right where her heart pounds in her chest. His lips curve into a small smile, and he meets her eye.

"Me too," he says softly, reaching for her hand with his free one and bringing it up to his own chest. He shudders when her palm makes contact, and they stand close together, feeling each other's racing hearts and pretending there isn't a very obvious reminder of what they're doing within centimeters of poking Bella in the stomach.

"Be certain," he pleads, searching her eyes. "Be certain of me, Bella. Otherwise, say no. You can still say no."

"I am certain of you," she replies, matching the softness of her voice to his. "And I don't want to say no." As if to punctuate the point, she reaches for her hips and slides the garter belt and panties down her legs in one smooth movement. Immediately, Edward leans in and drops a gentle kiss to her temple, then another to her cheek before his lips still against her jaw, and he breathes into her neck. Each warm puff of breath washes over her clavicle, sternum, breasts, and the almost-touch is making parts of her hum that she didn't know existed. After no fewer than six breaths, he pulls back, looking into her face once more before dropping his gaze to look at all of her. When he does, the breath he sucks in is audible.

"Oh," he breathes, "look at you."

But she can't; she's too busy looking at him. At the way his lowered lashes hide his green eyes, at the play of golden light over his skin, at the lines of his body. She knows that women's curves are supposed to be the very definition of sexy, but there's something to be said about the beauty of the hard lines on a man: the right angle of his jaw, the perpendicular line that bisects his abdominals, the diagonal lines of the pelvic muscle that leads down past his hips. The perfectly horizontal collarbone and the straight up-and-down of his legs. And then, of course, the line of his erection, jutting out toward her from his very center.

As she catalogs, she feels his fingertips trace the curve of her shoulder, quite possibly the most innocent place on her body he could have touched, and yet arousal blasts through her like a rocket. When she meets his eyes, their color shifts from moss to emeralds. She hadn't been thinking about his eyes when she'd admitted that she missed the green from home, but in this moment, it feels like he's found a way to give it back to her. Then he ducks his head toward her and presses his mouth to hers, and all thoughts of everything other than his skin are lost. His lips part and he brushes his tongue against hers, and heat begins to spiral out from the center of her to every point on her body and back again.

Despite the growing heat of his kisses, his hands haven't moved from where they gently cup her neck, and her skin is prickling in anticipation. Nervous though she is, she's desperate to feel the soft touch of his fingertips against every inch of her overheated skin. Still, he keeps his hands where they are, fingers toying with the loose strands of her hair at the back of her neck.

"Don't you want to touch me?" The throaty tenor of her voice is nearly as unrecognizable as the boldness of her words.

"Yes," he whispers, but still, his hands don't move.

Suddenly, she's desperate for _some_ kind of coverage, and she reaches up, wrapping her hands around his wrists. When he looks down into her face, she steps away and pulls back the blankets before slipping into her small single bed. The sheets are cool against her heated skin, and a small shiver of unexpected pleasure shudders down her body. She's never been in bed naked before; she's surprised by how pleasurable that simple thing is. Edward's watching her carefully, and she leans back against her pillow, suddenly uncertain. Is she being too forward? As if she weren't already too forward by inviting him here in the first place, now she feels as though she could potentially be making a fool of herself, and insecurity wars with the arousal still thick in her blood.

"Hang on," he says, half turning, and she never imagined that a man's backside could be so breathtakingly appealing. "I have…" He fumbles in the pocket of his slacks and then turns back toward her, hand clutched around a small white square that looks like a matchbook.

Bella clutches the sheets to her chest. "What is it?"

"It's…a French letter."

"What?" But the minute the question leaves her lips, realization dawns. "Oh!" He's blushing, and Bella feels her eyes widen. She had honestly been ready to accept whatever possible consequences might exist as a result of her choice. She's pleased to realize she isn't at all surprised that he's come prepared to protect her.

"You didn't…" He shakes his head. "You thought I would…"

"I…didn't really think about it, to be honest."

He frowns. "You didn't think about it?"

"It would be worth anything," she says, scraping her courage together with shaky fingers. To her immense relief, Edward steps toward the bed and slips beneath the covers beside her, depositing the French letter on the small nightstand.

"I wouldn't do that to you," he whispers, smoothing her hair back off her face and then running the backs of his fingers over her cheekbone. She swallows and Edward shifts slightly on the tiny bed before his body goes taut, and he just catches himself before tipping over the edge of the mattress and crashing to the wooden floor. Bella giggles, and it's nearly enough to push most of the nerves away.

"Sorry," she whispers into the darkness, still clutching the bedcovers in a white-knuckled grip. "I know, it's a bit small."

"It's perfect," he says, resituating the comforter over himself before rolling back toward her. "Just means I need to be closer to you, is all."

"All right, then," she breathes, watching as he rolls toward her, sliding a hand behind her to draw her into his arms. Her eyes widen as their bodies press together from head to toe. Then Edward lowers his head and kisses her again, taking advantage of her distraction to settle himself on top of her. It's as though she can feel everything—the springy hair on his legs, the heavy thud of his heart against her breasts, the soft silk of his belly against her own stomach, the insistent hardness of _that_ part of him against the inside of her thigh. After a few breaths, he pulls back, peering down into her face. "I'll be yours in more than body if we do this," he whispers, and her chest flutters at the intensity in his voice.

"Good," is all she can say, knowing she's already his in more than body and he's hardly even touched her.

Then he kisses her again, and suddenly there's an intensity to his kisses that has never been there before. He's been holding back, and she knows why: Edward's kisses as a prelude to lovemaking are devastating, and she can't imagine a woman on earth who wouldn't be begging him to take her to bed after being on the receiving end of one of them.

In the overwhelming torrent of nerves, words have escaped her. For him, however, nerves evidently have the opposite effect: he's become even chattier than normal.

"Your skin is so soft." This, as his hand slides around her bare hip.

"You're so tiny. I'm afraid of crushing you." This, he runs a hand down the middle of her stomach to her belly button.

"You smell so good." With his face buried in her hair.

"Your feet are cold." As his warm feet brush against her cool ones.

She reaches up and kisses his neck, and he groans. As her nipples brush against the warm skin of his chest, she shivers.

"Would it be terribly rude of me to admit that I've wanted to make love to you since that first night in the shelter?" he asks into the skin of her neck.

"Really?"

"I spent a large chunk of the next morning reading the Bible my mother hid in my duffle bag and silently confessing to a considerable number of impure thoughts."

She giggles into the darkness, breaking off as his hand slides up the back of her leg, fingertips brushing the curve where her thigh meets her backside, and she shudders in his arms.

"Hold on a minute," he whispers, arching away from her to retrieve the French letter from the nightstand. She watches the shift of his shoulder muscles as his hands work, and when he returns to her, she marvels at the way such a long-limbed man can move with such fluid grace. But just as she's expecting a rather significant movement, he freezes, going absolutely still atop her.

"I love you," he murmurs, green eyes bright. "I want to make sure you know that. It's probably silly, but it feels…important. To say it."

"I love you too," she whispers, gripping his shoulders with trembling hands.

"You'll…stop me if it hurts."

She wouldn't stop him regardless, and instead of lying to reassure him, she bends her knees, bringing them up to cradle his hips. His breath escapes him in a heavy rush, and his eyes drop from her face. He reaches down to take hold of himself, and she watches the sweep of his eyelashes over his cheekbones, noticing for the very first time that there are tiny, faint freckles scattered there.

Then there's a probing pressure between her legs, and belatedly, she thinks perhaps she should have put down a towel. But there is nothing in the world that could make her get out of this bed and walk starkers to the bathroom, and before she can give it a second more thought, the pressure between her legs becomes a sudden burn as she feels Edward's hip bones meet hers. She tenses and whimpers, and he goes stone-still.

"I'm sorry, sorry…" Edward ghosts a gentle touch over her cheekbone. "Bella." When she doesn't open her eyes, he kisses her closed eyelids, first the left, then the right. "Bella, please look at me." When she does, his brows are furrowed, his eyes filled with concern. "Is it bad?"

It's a hundred different things—shocking, painful, wonderful, strange, sexy, utterly defying description—but one thing she can unilaterally say it is _not_ is bad. "No," she breathes, shaking her head and hearing her hair rustle against the starched cotton of her pillowcase. "No, it's not bad."

Relief melts the accordion crease from his forehead, and he blows out a breath. "Okay." But he still doesn't move, and he props his forehead against his biceps, hiding his face from her gaze. Beneath her fingertips, she can feel the faint tremble in his shoulders.

"Are you all right?" she whispers, and he lifts his head, eyes wide with surprise.

"Am _I_ all right?"

"You're trembling."

"I…" He falters. "I just…don't feel like I fit inside my skin right now."

And it's the most perfect thing he could have said, because it's exactly how she's feeling. In an effort to take inventory, she tilts her hips slightly. Edward's answering groan makes her freeze. "Sorry."

"God, no, don't be sorry. I just…" He shakes his head. "I don't want it to end."

She isn't quite sure what he means, but she's too busy assessing the feeling in her body, the slowly ebbing pinch that she had felt inside of her loosening. She shifts beneath him again, and when she peers up into his face, his features are twisted into a grimace. It hadn't occurred to her that he wouldn't like it. The faint shame she'd felt at being forward is eclipsed by a morbid humiliation that not only has she tarted herself out, she isn't even doing it right. "I'm sorry," she whispers again, biting back tears. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"Well, you're doing it right," he whispers back, his voice strained.

Confusion chips away at her mortification. "You mean it…it doesn't feel terrible?"

Edward's eyes are as wide as saucers, shining down at her through the darkness. "Terrible? Bella, I've never felt anything like this in my life."

"But…your face. You look like you're in pain."

He shakes his head. "Definitely not in pain. I just…I desperately want to move, but I want to give you time to…be all right."

Relieved beyond words, she lifts her head from the pillow and kisses him gently on the lips. "I'm all right. Better than all right."

"Are you sure?"

Lowering her head once again, she nods. "I'm ready, if you want to move." Experimentally, he retreats and pushes forward again, and a surprised breath falls from her lips. "Oh."

"A good oh?"

She isn't quite sure, but whatever it was, it didn't hurt. "I think so."

He smiles and does it again, and while it's still a bit strange, there's something decidedly pleasurable about knowing it's Edward she can feel sliding in and out of her, something heart-failingly wonderful about sharing this with him. And there's something unbelievably tender about the look on his face, the affection in his eyes.

"Still okay?" he asks, slightly breathless.

"Wonderfully okay," she murmurs, sliding her hands from his shoulders to his neck. "But…do you think you could kiss me again?"

His answer is the gentle pressure of his lips, the soft sweep of his tongue, the warm puff of his heavy breaths in her mouth. After a few kisses, he pulls back to watch her face, and she realizes that the pace of his hips is increasing.

"Bella," he whispers.

"What?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. Just…_Bella_." Then, suddenly, his thrusts become jerky and his whole body goes rigid, and she feels him shaking beneath her hands as his eyes fall closed. He pulses where they're joined and then goes weightless on top of her, plastering their bodies together with sweat as his heart hammers against hers. "Bella," he whispers again, and the feeling of having him full inside of her recedes.

"Oh," she sighs into the darkness, and she's overwhelmed by the desire to laugh and to cry at the same moment. Her body feels taut but not nearly as sore as she might have anticipated, and she can still feel pleasure swimming thickly through her.

"I love you," Edward breathes into the skin of her neck, and she feels his lips sliding over the curve of her shoulder.

"I love you too." Bella clings to him with her arms and, after only a moment's hesitation, wraps her legs around him, too, embarrassingly pleased by the throaty groan that escapes him.

A few moments of silence pass, panted breaths slowing into something closer to normal rhythm as her heart does the same thing, until he shifts slightly, pulling away from her. "I need to, um…" He trails off and dips his head downward.

"All right," she says, loosening both arms and legs and feeling immediately bereft as they part. But he's back in a span of moments, sliding beneath the covers and pressing a line of kisses from the round of her shoulder to the curve between neck and shoulder to the hinge of her jaw.

"Bella Swan," he murmurs, something like wonder in his voice, and she feels like she could blush if her skin weren't already aflame.

"Edward Cullen," she returns, tipping her head involuntarily to the side as his mouth continues its trail across her cheek, and she realizes she can _feel_ his smile. He continues pressing kisses all over her, and she basks in the way he can be so silly and yet so earnest at the same time. She'd heard a fair bit of whispered, giggled chatter about sex, but she'd never realized it could be _fun_. Finally, wanting to see his face, she slides both of her hands up to cradle his head and slide her fingers through his hair, dragging him up forcibly so she can look into his eyes.

"Oh, hello," he says, grinning, and she wants to roll her eyes. But instead, her face splits into an answering grin.

"Hello," she replies, and he arches a brow. After a minute, she realizes he's toying with the edge of the bedclothes. "Do you mind?" he asks, and she frowns slightly, uncomprehending.

"What?"

"I was…a little bit distracted. But I'd like to conduct a thorough inventory, if you wouldn't mind."

"A thorough inventory?" she echoes, and Edward tugs gently on the sheet, baring her breasts. She tenses, reaching for the cover, but he stills her with a gentle hand around her wrist. "A bit late for modesty, love." She tries valiantly to feel indignant, but she's powerless in the face of the pleased and faintly devious smirk playing about his mouth.

"What are you going to do?" she whispers, feeling ridiculous because what more is there to do that he hasn't done? Still, it's one thing to be pressed up against him beneath the bedclothes; it's quite another to bare herself to his assessing gaze like she's a bloody pinup girl.

"I'm going to bask," he murmurs, and suddenly, she feels his hands cup her breasts.

She gasps, back arching without her permission, and if she thought feeling his bare chest against her nipples was pleasurable, it has nothing on the feeling of his thumbs softly passing over them. Then he lowers his head and his mouth closes around one, and Bella feels like she's going to burst out of her skin. "Oh," she breathes, feeling the slight tug as he suckles, and the desire that had begun to build when he was inside of her is suddenly blazing with the same intensity as the city around them.

Edward pulls back to gaze at her face, and she feels his warm fingertips skirting down the plane of her stomach. Immediately, she clamps her legs together. "Edward," she gasps, but he quiets her with a kiss, and, bolstered by his insistence, she lets her legs splay. When his fingers find her center, she whimpers into his mouth.

"Are you terribly uncomfortable?" he asks, voice gentle with concern, and she shakes her head.

"No, not terribly uncomfortable," she whispers, and it feels like a lie, because in this moment, the last thing she is is uncomfortable. Still, she feels unbearably vulnerable, and she reaches for him, pulling him against her and letting her cheek rest against his warm chest. To her surprise, she can feel the hard length of him pressed to her thigh once more, and she shifts slightly, feeling it rub against her. Edward groans, arching his hips away.

"Bella." When he meets her eye, he looks regretful. "I only brought the one." He tips his head toward the nightstand, and she bites her lip.

"I don't…think it's the right time. If we did it without one."

"The right time?"

"For a baby," she says, her heart doing funny things inside her chest at the thought of Edward's baby. She's expecting her curse in a matter of days, and from what Alice said, that's the best time not to get herself up the duff. "I don't think it's the right time to start a baby."

"You can tell that?"

Bella blushes. "Well…yes, sort of." And she understands, suddenly, how girls get themselves in trouble: the far-off possibility that she could wind up with a baby is utterly eclipsed by the feel of his skin against hers, the gentle slide of his fingers making her feel dizzy and reckless and desperate and wanton. "It's all right," she whispers, tilting her hips and tightening her grip on his neck.

This time, when he pushes inside her, the slight discomfort from the first time is eclipsed by the heat: of him, of her, of _them_. "Oh God," he mumbles, stilling once he's inside her, and she's glad he said it because she's utterly at a loss for words. In this moment, she wants to hide him away from the world, away from the war, and keep him with her here in her tiny apartment while the city crumbles and rumbles around them. She wants to pretend that there's nothing horrible about a world where _this_ can happen, wants to ignore the pain and the suffering in favor of this unspeakable bliss. The pure, unsullied ecstasy of being here, with him, like this. "Even better," he's murmuring, somewhat mindlessly, into her neck. "It's even better. I can _feel_ you."

"I can feel you too," she says, and she can—every inch of every part of him, not just _that _part. She can feel the warm skin of his thighs against the inside of hers, the hard muscles of his backside against her heels, the unimaginable softness of his lower belly against her own. The cradle of his forearms behind her shoulder blades, the cups of his hands around her shoulders. And, of course, that part of him inside her, touching her in places she'd never known before this night.

"How is it?"

"Wonderful," she says without censure, and any other time, she'd be embarrassed by her own enthusiasm. But here, tonight, there's no room for anything except what's between them.

Worry melts from his face. "Yeah?"

"Yes, Edward. It's wonderful." And it is, the slight discomfort from earlier a memory, eclipsed by arousal and the low buzz of potential. Relieved, he leans in to kiss her, and she meets his tongue with hers, unbearably desperate, suddenly, not to hold anything back. He's settled into a rhythm, and she takes advantage of it to try to meet him, lifting her hips slightly off the bed in time with his movements.

"Oh," he groans, glancing down into the dark cave of the blankets. Then, to her utter surprise and slight mortification, he throws the covers off his shoulders, letting what little light exists in the room play over their bodies. His eyes watch as she undulates beneath him, as he penetrates and withdraws, and after a few mortified moments, she follows his gaze, surprised by the tide of arousal that washes her away at the sight. She can't quite believe that's _her_ body, that _she's_ the one doing these things, even as she's mindlessly, endlessly grateful that she is. "So beautiful," he murmurs, still moving, still watching. "Bella, you're so beautiful." His eyes climb to her face, and despite the fact that his hands remain curled around her shoulders, pulling her slightly into his thrusts, one long index finger finds the side of her neck. "I don't ever want to stop."

"You don't ever have to." But it isn't true, and they both know it, pretend though they might that tonight could stretch on forever. That tomorrow might not come and snatch him away.

"You're my girl?" he asks, pace increasing, and she meets his every movement, determined to be in this right along with him.

"Of course I'm your girl."

They fall silent, the only sounds exchanged their traded breaths, whimpers, groans of pleasure. The pleasant hum she's been feeling has been steadily growing into something altogether unrecognizable, and she feels a desperation, a need, a yearning spreading with alarming speed. "Don't stop," she pleads, entirely unsure as to where the words are coming from, only that they're the truest ones she has. "Please, don't stop." Because he can't—if he stops in this moment, she doesn't know what will happen. She needs more: more of him, more of this, more of them. And he listens, keeping up the pace of his hips, pressing perfectly into her, pushing her farther and farther up some unknown hill until she's poised on the precipice of the unknown for a brief, shining moment before she tips over and down the other side, falling into a spiral of pleasure and ecstasy and sensation she's never known. "Edward!" she gasps as her body shakes and shudders and quivers beyond any control of her own. "Edward," she pleads, even as he's already given her everything she didn't know she wanted, and she clutches at his back, her nails digging into his soft, warm skin, her legs clamped tightly around his waist. "Oh," she murmurs, feeling her body go loose beneath his, realizing only belatedly that he's still thrusting, still bucking, still seeking.

When he pants "Are you sure?" a few minutes later, Bella is so lost in her own sea of pleasure, it takes her a moment to surface.

"What?"

"Are you sure? About…what you said? That I can…finish inside of you?"

"I'm sure," she says, tightening her legs around him, as if in protest of the possibility that he might withdraw. "Please."

"I'm going to," he grunts, thrusts growing erratic, and she feels her own ebbing arousal flicker at the very thought.

"Please," she whispers again as he lets go, and she feels his warmth flood her.

. . .

It amazes her, how different the darkness feels with Edward's warm body wrapped around hers, his skin softer than the softest blanket. Even with Alice a mere wall away, the darkness had always deepened her solitude, but sharing it with Edward makes it feel like a cocoon around them, something they want rather than something that's been thrust upon them. That she opts to spend the night with him above ground, in her own bed, instead of on a train station platform with countless other Londoners, makes her feel daring, if not a little bit reckless. But it would almost be worth it, she thinks, for her last moments on earth to be spent in such bliss.

At the thought—of her last moments, of his, of the fact that both of those moments could be closer than either of them dares consider—a bubble of need to speak rises in her throat.

"I've lost quite a few people in my life," she breathes into the clammy hollow of his throat, her nose pressed to the curve of his neck. She feels him lean back, as if trying to see her. She pulls one more deep breath from his skin before meeting his eyes in the darkness.

"I won't be another one," he promises, and he looks so young in this moment, eyes bright, hair tousled, promising the unpromiseable.

"How many airmen do you think have made that same promise?" she wonders aloud, not in challenge but merely in question.

"More than can keep it," he replies. "But I didn't join someone else's war to die in it, Bella."

"How long do you think it will stay someone else's war?"

"Hopefully forever," he says, defiance darkening his eyes. "Hopefully we win it before anyone else has to get sucked into it."

As she peers up at him through the darkness, she knows he's thinking of his brothers.

"I guess you'd better send Hitler packing sooner rather than later, then," she says, pressing herself to him, head to toe. "So that you can get back here to me."

"So that I can get back here and marry you," he replies, ducking his head to kiss the hinge of her jaw.

She goes still in his arms. "You want to marry me?" she asks, voice barely a whisper.

Her surprise is mirrored on his face. "You think I'd be here with you, like this, if I didn't want to marry you?"

"I…I don't know. I know war makes people do silly things."

"There's nothing silly about this, Bella. Yes, I want to marry you. I wanted to marry you before I took you to bed. But I won't make you promise me until I come back. I won't ask for your hand—or your heart—until I'm sure I'll be back to get them."

The mere thought that he might not be makes her throat tighten and her eyes sting. "Whether you ask or not, they're already yours."

. . .

He leaves at the first suggestion of dawn, pressing kiss after kiss to her mouth that make her want to barricade the door and drag him back into her room and never let him leave. But he does, taking her courage and her recklessness and her heart with him when he does.

"I'll be back," he says, even though he said he didn't want to make her promises.

"You better," she replies, wrapping her arms around him with all the strength she has.

"I love you," he whispers into her lips, and she thinks of her father and her grandmother and how maybe goodbyes you don't get to say are sometimes easier than the ones you do.

She watches as he disappears into the not-quite-sunrise, and she swallows against the knot of fear and heartache and aborted bliss in her throat. She feels, for the first time, like she might have even a glimmer of understanding for what Alice has been feeling these past few months.

As she washes and dresses and tries to prepare herself for work, for the day, for the first day of all the days that come next, an unidentifiable desperation begins to simmer within her. She hears Alice reenter the flat, and she stares at her own reflection in the tiny mirror above the loo sink, at the flush in her cheeks and her slightly swollen lips and the new look of understanding in her dark eyes.

She abandons her hairpins and pushes the door open, heading for the kitchen.

"Alice, I'm not going."

Her friend turns from where she'd been filling the teapot. "What?"

"To work," she replies, retrieving her coat from the back of the chair where she'd left it the night before. The sight of Edward's and her abandoned, still-full teacups on the tabletop only strengthens her resolve. "I'm not going today. Make up a story for me, will you?"

"Bella…"

"Please."

"I thought you said your goodbyes."

"We did. But…there's something else I didn't say."

She can see that Alice wants to tell her not to go, to let him go, to protect herself, but behind all of that, she can see the flicker of knowledge, the twinge of melancholy that darkens Alice's eyes whenever she thinks of Jamie. "All right," she says softly. "Mind how you go, though, all right?"

"I will," Bella promises, crossing the kitchen to give her friend, her sister, a quick hug. Then, stepping out into the damaged city streets, she starts to run.

. . .

The King's Cross platform is surprisingly packed with bodies, a surprising number of them in uniform, and Bella's eyes jump frantically from one to the next, looking for the silhouette she now feels like she should be able to pick out of the crowd. Desperation climbs in her chest as the porter announces the pending departure for York, and she can feel tears prickling behind her eyes when she spies a hat a fair distance ahead, with a hairline that comes to a point at the nape of the neck beneath it.

"Edward!" she calls, trying to shoulder her way through a knot of people. "I'm sorry, pardon me, please, _Edward!_"

She doesn't know how, but he hears her, and she sees his profile as he turns, brows furrowed as he scans the crowd before landing on where she's pushing her way through another cluster of bodies. He turns fully, a smile and a frown warring on his face as joy at seeing her fights with concern as to why she's barreling across a train platform mere hours after he left her safely in the warmth of her flat.

"Bella?" he asks when she hurtles into his chest, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug before pulling back to look up into his face. "Hey, everything okay?"

"Marry me," she gasps, feeling reckless and wrecked and frantic. She can feel her hair loose around her face, the cold sting of redness in her cheeks and at the tip of her nose, can see the visible puffs of air escaping from her lips as she pants into the space between them.

His eyebrows disappear beneath the shiny black brim of his hat, his mouth pops open, and she would laugh if she could find one beneath the swirl of desperation in her chest. His Adam's apple bobs above the tight knot of his dark tie as his hands clench her biceps. "Pardon?"

"Marry me," she repeats, determined not to waver in the face of his shock. "I know it's not proper for me to be the one asking, but I am."

"Bella…"

"I understand. I understand why you didn't want to. You don't want to ask me to wait. You don't want to promise me anything you can't deliver. I understand. But I can promise _you_. I promise you that I'll be here, waiting, when you get back. I promise that I'll still want you, no matter what happens between now and then, no matter how long it takes for the 'then' to get here. I promise that I'll love you fiercely every minute you're gone, so fiercely not even bloody Hitler would dare take you away from me."

He swallows again, blinking. "Bella."

"I love you. I won't ask you for a promise you can't make. I won't do that to you. I'm not asking you to promise to come home. But I'm asking you to promise to marry me when you do."

Edward leans in, pressing his forehead to hers. "_Bella_," he says again, voice barely audible. Then, he chuckles. "What are the boys gonna say when I tell them my girl was the one who proposed?"

Bella smiles, some of her despair evaporating at the reappearance of their banter. "Tell them a lot's happened while they've been gone. We girls have learned a thing or two."

"I'll say," he murmurs against her cheek, and at the implication, she blushes.

"At ease, airman," she says, smile audible in her voice. When he pulls back, her eyebrow is arched. "Well then?"

"Well then?" he repeats, frowning slightly.

"Is that a yes?"

He grins, and it makes her heart soar at the same moment it makes her chest tighten. The warning whistle of the train rips through the air around them, and his grin dims slightly as he pulls her to his chest. "_Yes_," he murmurs fiercely. She lets her eyes close as she presses her ear to the coat covering his chest, wishing she could hear his heartbeat through the layers of fabric and noise. "I'll be back to marry you, Bella Swan," he says into the cold London air above her head before pressing a kiss to her hairline.

"Too right," she replies, tipping her head back so that he can kiss her properly.

. . .

November drifts into December and then into January, night falling earlier and lasting longer, nights on the platform and in the small shelter out back colder and bleaker than ever. She receives intermittent letters from Edward, full of nothing about what he's doing and everything about how much he loves her, misses her, can't wait to get back to her. When the first one had arrived, she realized she'd never seen Edward's handwriting, and it seemed absurd to her that she'd seen him without clothes on but had no idea he had such terrible penmanship. Occasionally, he'll write a rambling missive about Forks, about what he misses, can't wait to get back to, can't wait to show her, and she knows even from a distance that it's how he's processing his homesickness, his nostalgia, how he's keeping the terrors of warfare at bay. She wonders which skies he flies in at night, whether he's above the city streets she's hiding beneath, or whether he's over some other part of England, protecting waterways or factories or railway stations she's never seen. She listens to the wireless and reads the papers with a new level of dedication, though she gleans little knowledge of what he's doing from any of the reports.

On one particularly cold January afternoon, she's considering trying to recreate some version of her nan's roast dinners with the meager ingredients rationing has afforded them as she opens the door to the flat, tensed muscles relaxing into the bubble of warmth that greets her. When she steps into the kitchen, though, all thoughts of dinner vanish as she registers who sits at her kitchen table across from Alice. She hasn't seen him in years, but she recognizes the blond curls, the clear blue eyes, the impertinent smirk that always seemed to be his default expression, even as a child.

"No," she says instead of a greeting, taking a step back from the threshold and shaking her head, hand coming up to her mouth, tears already flooding her eyes. "_No_."

Jasper Whitlock rises hastily from their small kitchen table, both hands held up in mollification. "He's all right, Bella."

Bella's backward movement halts, and her hand drops from her mouth to her chest, where her heart had already started to crack behind her breastbone. "He's what?"

"He's all right. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm on furlough for a couple of days, and I had business to see to in London. He asked me to pay you a visit."

"I'll just put on another pot," Alice murmurs, sliding the teapot off the table and stepping up to the gas cooker.

"He's all right?" Bella asks, entirely unconcerned at the wobble in her voice, and Jasper nods.

"Perfectly fine, ma'am."

"Oh, Jasper," Bella bleats in exasperation. "'Ma'am,' honestly."

The smirk becomes a wry grin, and he dips his head slightly in acquiescence. "All right, then."

"Where is he? Why didn't he get furlough?"

"Well, technically, he did. But we just got a new crop of guys who volunteered, and our squadron leader asked him to help train them up."

An undeniable surge of petty selfishness threatens to overtake her as she wishes Edward would have said no, would have come to see her instead. But she remembers the boy from Forks who always did the right thing, who helped little Bree Tanner retrieve her wayward cat out of storm drains and oak trees, who raked the widow Murphy's yard every autumn without the cranky old woman ever asking—or paying—him, the boy who was, by all accounts, the most patient tutor Forks High School had ever seen. If he hadn't agreed to train a few new, young pilots, he wouldn't be the Edward she remembers, and that would be nearly as upsetting as not seeing him for interminable stretches of time.

"Oh," she says weakly, and Jasper's expression melts into something almost sympathetic.

"He said to tell you he's sorry, and that he misses you, and…well." He reaches into the small bag he has slung across his body and pulls out a small, creased envelope. "He wanted me to give you this."

Her name is scrawled across the front, and Bella is immediately soothed by the sight of his now-familiar scribble. She bites back the sudden, ridiculous urge to giggle. "Thank you," she says, watching as Jasper digs in his bag again.

"And I was threatened with grievous bodily injury if I didn't deliver these as well." He holds out a small pouch. When Bella pulls the thin string loose, into her palm tumble five silver-wrapped Hershey's Kisses. "I'm under strict orders to relay that these will have to suffice until the real thing can be delivered." He looks as though he desperately wants to make some kind of comment, but to his credit, he refrains. "And one last thing."

"Goodness," Alice says from the direction of the stove. "Has he mistaken you for a horse-drawn float, then?" But there's only amusement in her voice, and Bella waits in silent expectation. This time, Jasper reaches up to the pocket on his right chest, slipping the gleaming brass button free and lifting the flap. From within, he unearths a small silver something and steps forward. "He says to apologize for stealing a couple of the chocolates, but it was a necessary sacrifice for the cause." When he holds up his hand, pinched between his thumb and forefinger is a crude impression of a ring, made from the silver foil wrappers of her beloved candies. "I explained to him that this is terribly unimpressive as tokens of affection go, but he assured me that you are a woman who appreciates sentimentality and then told me to shove off and mind my own business." Here, he shrugs and extends the makeshift ring toward her. "Anyway. Here you are."

Bella accepts the small circle as if it's a ring of the finest precious metal in existence and slips it onto her third finger without a moment's hesitation.

"Huh," Jasper says, watching her with amusement. "Damn if I don't hate it when that cocky sonuvabitch is right." He glances to where Alice is pouring the tea through a strainer. "Any chance I can interest you in a foil ring?"

Alice snorts. "Hardly." But Bella is thrilled to see a small smile tugging at the corners of her friend's mouth and a tiny spark of amused flattery in her eyes, and her heart soars.

"Bella will vouch for my character," Jasper tries, throwing a conspiratorial glance in Bella's direction, and she fights her own smile.

"I'll do no such thing," she sniffs. "But I will say that if Edward still sees fit to be friends with you, you must have some redeeming qualities."

He appears to consider this dubious endorsement for a moment before returning his focus to Alice. "Well, see there? Surely, that ought to get me at least a dinner."

Alice shakes her head, but she's smiling. "You're terribly strongheaded, aren't you?"

"Matter of fact, I have been told that, yes, ma'am." Where his affected "ma'am" had made Bella's eyes roll, it seems to have the intended impact on Alice, who flushes slightly. She glances toward Bella, who attempts an encouraging smile.

"I'll tell you what. You bring her boy in blue back here soon, and without any considerable damage, and I'll grant you a dinner."

Jasper grins. "Well, hot damn, it's a deal."

In the privacy of her own room, with the heart-lifting sound of Alice's giggles drifting from the direction of the kitchen, Bella carefully tears open the flap of the envelope and smiles at her betrothed's spiky scribble.

"_Bella, I have a week's furlough at the end of April. How would you feel about a spring wedding? Yours, Edward."_

. . .

In the clear spring sunshine, there is a modest cluster of white freesia, and Alice and Jasper as witnesses. A pair of RAF airmen stands on the front steps of the church with silver swords raised in a pointed archway, blades glinting in the sunlight. Everyone pretends not to notice that one has his arm in a sling while the other has a brace from ankle to hip.

As Edward loops his arm through Bella's and grins down at her, she beams back at him, all of the darkness of war and nighttime blitzes and bomb shelters feeling very far off in the bright, sparkling glow of springtime and joy.

"You're breathtaking," he whispers, and she flushes, glancing down at the dress Alice made from the old white lace curtains that once hung at her grandmother's windows. "Am I a terrible phony for wearing white?"

Edward's eyes darken only slightly, but his jaw sets and a fierce look slides over his face. "You're mine. I'm yours. There's nothing more pure or more honest than that. And if anyone would say otherwise, they can stuff it." The ferocity fades, eclipsed entirely by wonder. "And you're gorgeous." When she only blushes and looks down, he steps closer. "Do you regret it?" he asks after a moment, looking atypically uncertain. "That tonight won't be the first night?"

"No," she says immediately, looking up into his face as she thinks back to the soft slide of his skin against hers, the night they'd spent together in her tiny flat, pretending there was nothing to fear in the inky darkness. "I could never regret it."

Relief steals over his face immediately. "Good," he breathes, his fingers squeezing hers. "I couldn't bear it if you did."

There's a small ceremony and a small lunch at a restaurant with bombed-out shop fronts on either side of it.

They leave lunch and go back to her flat, where they immediately tumble together into her too-small bed, rediscovering each other after months apart, the hesitation and nervousness gone but the wonder still very much at the forefront.

The hot slide of his mouth over every inch of her skin, the gentle questing of her fingertips over his, the gasps that pepper her bedroom, still awash in late afternoon sunlight.

Afterward, as dusk descends, they lie knotted together in the gradually dimming room, hands drifting lazily over each other's skin until they both shiver and quickly make tea for her and coffee for him in her small kitchen, snagging a packet of custard creams before returning to the bed, Edward turning the wireless on before joining her beneath the covers. They lean against each other, reveling in the minor decadence of warm teacups and sweet biscuits in bed, listening to the BBC Home Service.

As the cookies disappear, the program draws to a close. "Goodnight children everywhere," the disembodied voice murmurs, and as it switches over from the Children's Hour to the six o'clock news, Edward moves across the room and switches it off, throwing the room into silence. "None of that tonight," he says softly as he scoots back beneath the sheet with her and snags her empty teacup to relocate it to her nightstand.

She turns to her side, curling into his warmth, her forehead pressed to his shoulder. Immediately, he mirrors her posture, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as they burrow deeper into the blankets. "When I hear that," she murmurs, "I can't not think of the evacuees." In response, Edward slides his palm up the bare skin of her arm, and she wonders fleetingly if there will come a time in marriage when such a tiny little intimacy won't thrill her. She hopes not.

"Did you know any?"

"A little boy and little girl from across the road. The Mitchells. Betsy and George. I just…their mother's face when she came back from the station the day they left." Bella shivers, and his hand makes another pass up her arm before he nudges closer to her. "I can't imagine having to make that choice. It's got to be the ultimate act of faith, and courage, but how heartbreaking."

"Well, what's faith, if not courage?"

She tips her head back to look at him, even as she scoots ever closer, bringing her stomach in contact with his, imagining that his idealism could bleed into her at all the points where their skin touches. She presses a palm to his chest, feeling the comforting thud of his heart from within.

"If I had a child, I think I'd feel differently about wanting to stay here. Does that make me a coward?"

Edward hums softly. "A war zone is no place for a child."

"No," she agrees. "I just…I hope they've got a home and parents to come home to when it's all over."

"Well, that's what we're fighting for."

"I know." She feels guilty suddenly, for letting her melancholy darken their wedding night. But perhaps it's impossible to pretend indefinitely that what's happening just outside their blacked-out windows isn't, in fact, happening.

"Bella, look at me." When she does, he looks more intent than perhaps she's ever seen him. "Even before you. Before I met you, loved you, married you. I would think about why we're doing this. What we're fighting for. I'd think of Kate and her daughter, my friend's daughter. What are we fighting for, if not for kids? English kids, American kids, Polish kids…doesn't matter. If there's one thing that's universal, it's gotta be mothers wanting to protect their babies, and fathers willing to fight for them."

A flash of an imagined memory of her own father in a trench in Europe, a letter from his wife announcing the birth of his daughter tucked inside his pocket.

"The world's gone mad," she whispers, and Edward's hold on her tightens.

"Only parts of it. The rest of it's fighting like hell. Because what kind of world would we be leaving those babies if we didn't fight? If you weren't stuffing munitions and I wasn't shooting the Luftwaffe out of the night sky?"

"Do you—" She falters for a moment before relocating her courage. "Do you want children?"

"Yes," he says, immediately and simply.

She worries the edge of the blanket between her fingers for a beat before she speaks again. "Should we…wait, though? Until things are better?"

He's quiet for a long time, watching her face intently. When he speaks, his voice is pitched low. "There's value in living our lives. In being unafraid."

"What if…what if this keeps going for years? What if, in five years' time, we're sending our child away on a ship or a train to keep her safe?"

"I trust our world, Bella. I trust in our collective humanity. I trust in the _good_ in people. Hitler won't win. That kind of evil won't win. Battles have casualties and tragedies and losses, but look at history. When was the last time the good guys stood up and fought but the bad guys still won?" He slides his hand around her back, running a fingertip up the line of her spine before cupping her shoulder blade in his warm hand. "Maybe that's as much our duty as fighting: bringing more children into the world who are brave and kind and _good_." He exhales softly. "But…I will admit, I'm okay with waiting a little bit. I wouldn't mind having you all to myself for a small while. And…I'd hate to imagine bringing a child into the world but not being there to see it happen."

A not entirely unexpected swell of relief rolls through her chest. "Okay. We'll wait."

"But not because we're afraid," he says, eyes intent, and she suddenly understands something fundamental about this new husband of hers, perhaps the very something that brought him across an ocean to fight a war that technically isn't even his: the need not to be afraid. The need always to be standing up for what's right and good, even in these quiet moments where it's just the two of them, cocooned away from the world.

"No," she agrees, feeling her own worry slowly ebbing away to be replaced by something more closely resembling nerve. "Not because we're afraid."

He nods once, satisfied, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft but fierce. "We're gonna win, Bella. We're gonna win, and I'm gonna come back and take you home to see my family, and we're gonna have a bunch of beautiful babies, and we'll tell them all about how the world is a small place, where we take care of other people's kids. And we'll raise them with my mom's meatloaf and your nan's roast dinners, and we'll make sure they understand why you always, always fight for people who can't fight for themselves."

"I love you so much," she whispers, throat tight with tears and pride and love, and he beams down at her as if it's the best thing he's ever heard.

"I am quite something," he agrees, chasing all the wretched seriousness away from the moment, and as she smacks him in the chest, he throws his head back and laughs, and in this moment, in the blacked-out darkness of her adopted city, it's a tiny victory that she'll take.

. . .


End file.
